


Potter's Portrait

by ariz0nababy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adults, Art, Dark, Death, Drarry, Loneliness, M/M, Painting, Post-War, Romance, Slow Build, Tension, gay lol, slow, slow-burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 49,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25877170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariz0nababy/pseuds/ariz0nababy
Summary: After the war, Draco spends his days at Malfoy Manor, curtains drawn, paint brush in hand. When Harry Potter requests a portrait, Draco scoffs. However, Pansy has other plans for Draco.
Relationships: Drarry - Relationship, Ron and Hermione - Relationship
Comments: 81
Kudos: 308





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, new story. I don't know how regular these updates will be since I haven't written in ages. I hope this serves as inspiration? Also I have a tumblr page for my drarry obsession now, so you can interact with me on [there](https://ariz0nababy.tumblr.com/) if you'd like. Thanks for reading anyway xxx
> 
> **TW: mention of death**

An idea.

That is the most essential ingredient to precede creation. 

Malfoy’s fingers were plagued with tremors, and so the strokes of brush across canvas only resembled sad streaks. 

He stood at arm’s length, and observed the daunting portrait. 

The paint looked sad. Muddy brown, and a depressing shade of blue which could only resemble the color of the water in the middle of Scotland’s December. 

He set the paintbrush aside, and reached for the scrap of cloth by his easel, to rid his fingers of the pungent scent of turpentine before it could stain his fingertips for the rest of the evening. 

Though no cloth could rid this evening of its gloomy stench. 

Thunderstorm and lightning played a jarring duet outside the manor’s great glass windows. The mood of the entire creaking, old place stank of a bad mid-century’s recreation of Dracula’s castle. Drapes of moth-eaten, velvet curtains hung on their dying breaths, framing the corners of every manor window. 

It was years since the manor experienced a thorough renovation, and Draco swore no such thing would take place under his watch. At least, not any time soon. 

No, Draco was too concerned with getting that portrait right to do anything else but eat, drink himself to sleep, and wank incase neither of the latter rid him of his foul mood. 

His muscles were constantly tense, his skin had paled after days of lack of sun exposure, and his knuckles cracked and bled so painfully that no ointment could heal his skin in time before the next gust of wind set the manor with a bone shaking chill. Nothing about England promised warmth, and the manor’s seclusion did nothing to abate the ongoing winter. 

Draco couldn’t remember the last time he touched warmth with his fingertips. Summer felt like a lifetime ago, and even then, he had hardly parted himself from the confines of these old walls. 

He closed the door to the drawing room, now converted into his makeshift art studio, and sought solace near the blazing fireplace. So desperate, he thought to himself as he lowered himself onto his knees to get as close as he could to the fire without burning his hands. 

He watched as the flames flickered, as they danced to the crackling sound of the logs catching fire. He played a game of how close he could get to the fire, before the tips of his fingers screamed with pain and he removed his hands to find the tips flaming red from pain. 

It was a silly game. He made up his mind that he would retire to bed at this instant, as the howling wind continued outside. He had no time for silly games, or games which could burn his fingers and get in the way of his painting. Draco climbed up the stairs to his room, and he fell to sleep with the sound of the world collapsing ringing in his ears.


	2. Chapter 1

Often people wondered about the odious smell at the manor. Draco would lead them to his father’s old study, but they continued to shake their heads. No, there was something else and it wasn’t the turpentine. 

Of course, it wasn’t the turpentine, Draco would think. It was the stench of a bachelor’s pad, of a lonely man with no companions. He would like to have someone pretty shadow him around the manor, to pull back the dusty curtains, to pick roses and peonies every other week, to light sweet scented candles and pull out the candelabras for dinner. Of course, he yearned for the gut wrenching scent of baked goods, of gingerbread cookies, jam biscuits, and pumpkin pies. 

Instead, it smelled like wood, rugs in need of dusting, decaying plants, and far too many cold dinners. 

But Draco hardly ever registered that. He was accustomed to the smells, to the cold, to everything around him. He liked it. He liked the feeling of knowing that this was it. And one day, an old Slytherin classmate would push their way through the main door and find Draco by the cold fireplace, three weeks too late. It would most probably be Pansy, he thought.

They would surely announce it in the papers. “Malfoy Heir, Dead at Last,” or “Last of the Malfoys. Good Riddance.” It made him smile sarcastically. 

There was something about the definite nature of death which edged him on, tempted him, had him catching his breath. Finally, something he could rely on.   
He knew, then, that there was something wrong with him. 

A man of his age should abhor the very idea of death. Death should terrify him. Death should fill his gut with a nauseating feeling. Instead, he found himself accepting it, almost with arms wide open. 

When he lay on his bed, gazing at the dark and formless ceiling he envisioned the different ways in which he could die. It would certainly be due to lack of care, perhaps poor health or a widespread pandemic would grasp his arteries. Or maybe a mindless muggle would wander into what appeared to be an abandoned manor, only to find Draco painting and shoot him dead right there and rob the place of whatever value there was left in it. 

Draco accepted loneliness, accepted inevitable death. He accepted the stink of his lifestyle, the stink of being without companionship. Years of solitude and self-hatred afforded him such comfort. 

However, the front page of the newspapers would often grasp his attention. A word or two of the outside world tempted him quite often, with captivating catchphrases concerning a new restaurant, a couple’s engagement, divorce, or a criminal brought to justice. 

Potter’s face littered the front pages, though Draco hated to see it. He knew the moment he met Harry Potter that he would forever plague his daily life. Though it was restricted to seeing him between and during classes at Hogwarts, graduation allowed a new wave of presence. First, it was the Hogwarts memorial. Draco read the article a million times, though he couldn’t fathom why. Then the Weasly wedding, and somehow Potter’s face made it onto the front page, a squinting scrawny man with no hair gel and a scruffy beard. Draco hated him, yet he was captivated by his character as he assumed everyone else was. 

Once, Potter made it to the front page of every newspaper simply because he had chosen to (finally) purchase a new set of glasses. While Draco agreed the new golden frames suited his complexion, and the round edges complimented Potter’s character, he hardly thought it was worthy of the front pages. Yet he viewed every image released by the media. 

His fascination was concerning if not outright disturbing. It made him sick to his stomach just thinking of how invested he was in Potter’s life that each time the paper found its way into the manor, he was tempted to throw it into the open fireplace. 

He brushed it away as pure boredom, and the only connection he really had with the magical world. 

Sometimes, when his paintbrush picked up color, yet hovered over a blank canvas he thought of the day’s paper. He would think of potter’s new frames, some new convention he was spotted in, and who was lucky enough to be his date last evening. Draco would force his mind to banish all thoughts of Potter and his unruly hair, and lift the pencil from behind his ear to sketch out the skeleton of another piece. 

-  
“Oh, but you must have seen the papers,” Pansy frowned with her lovely thin brows. 

They sat in the tea room, where the smell of his bachelor pad was least potent. Although the room was cluttered. Cobwebs took over every corner, and the glass windows were in need of a cleansing spell. At least they afforded brightness, which Draco liked to think distracted from the overall neglect of the manor. 

“I have no idea what you are referring to.” Draco hated to admit that he enjoyed entertaining Pansy whenever she stopped for biscuits and tea. He thought without Pansy or the daily papers, he may have lost his mind ages ago. 

Sometimes, Pansy would even convince him to have a walk around the Malfoy gardens. Draco hated it. The dead plants and the cracked pavements reminded him of his mother. But he would allow her to take his arm, and his skin thrived under the sun for a few minutes. 

“The Potter ad.”

“What?” he’d already had his tea, and he was glad because the sound of Potter’s name in someone else’s voice outside of his head made him flinch violently. 

“Oh, honestly Draco. You said you kept up with the news.”

“I do. You came early. I wasn’t-“

She brushed it away with one hand, while she grabbed a biscuit with the other. “It doesn’t matter. I thought you should consider it. Here, I somehow knew this would happen.”

Pansy whipped out a torn page from the Prophet. Of course, it was Potter. 

“He’s asking for a portrait.” Pansy said.

“I gathered,” Draco mumbled. Potter’s face hardly ever changed, yet every snapped photo of him seemed different from the other. His face moved an inch, and the edge of his glasses caught in the light and shined through ink. Draco hardly knew how that was possible. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Draco, honestly, what have you been drinking?” Pansy rolled her eyes and set her empty cup aside. She reached for his hands, and discarded the paper. “This is your chance.”

“What are you on about?”

“Draco. You have to apply. You simply must apply.”

Draco wanted to laugh but his head hurt too much and he thought perhaps finally the turpentine had gotten to him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve seen you paint, Draco. If there’s anything in the world you love it’s that canvas and paint. This could be your chance to finally do something about it.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, taking his hands back. “I paint plenty, what does Potter have to do with any of it?”

“Look, I didn’t want to bring this up. I feel I have to remind you that eventually your inheritance will run out.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Pansy pushed. “Think about it, Draco. For fuck’s sake, you can’t sit around in self-pity while this ad practically begs for your attention. Is there a clearer sign than this?”

Draco held his breath and counted for ten seconds. “I need to rest.”

“No,” Pansy stood and slammed the paper on the table. “You need this more than you need anything else. And I won’t sit around and watch you deteriorate. Please.”

Draco said nothing. He took his eyes away from Pansy, and stared at the image of Potter until his vision blurred. 

“I have never asked anything of you,” Pansy’s hand rested on his shoulder. “And I understand how difficult this is. But you must think of tomorrow.” 

She left with smoke from the fire. 

Draco found the paper on his kitchen table, with an application form attached to the last page. 

He ran his fingers over the different questions, though he read none of them. His mind was on a different plane. Draco wondered why Potter would seek a portrait. Why now? Why so publicly? Why not have one of his friends ask around or something? And didn’t Potter hate the press? 

The deadline was next week. Why the rush? 

Draco sighed. He left the paper in the kitchen, and wandered into his study where he spent the next few hours painting until his back felt stiff and his eyes burned. 

It seemed no matter where he was, Potter always found a way to shove his bulky glasses into Draco’s life.


	3. Chapter 2

Draco enjoyed an occasional drunken night. After nearly obliterating his latest painting, he took a deep breath and decided to drown his frustration in whisky. Though he hated to admit it, Draco knew nothing of alcohol. Of course, his mother and father taught him a thing or two about wines and whisky but neither picked up on the habit of blacking out over a large bottle of vodka.

What he was certain of, was the effect of said vodka and whisky or whatever other bottle he found lying around the manor. He didn’t care, and he wasn’t so picky. Of course, with company he liked to spend his time swirling his glass of red wine and watching the liquid near the tip of his glass only to swish back. He thought it brought out the good angles on his wrists. But alone, in nothing but an old dressing gown, he unscrewed the bottle of some colorless beverage and shot it down his throat as he watched the fire come to life by the single wave of his wand.

He needed a wank. Something long and drawn out after downing the bottle. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a good wank, one that had him breathless and craving real sex. He had no idea what real sex was. Overtime he’d lost touch with reality he could hardly remember what it was like to be that intimate with anyone. Surely, part of him craved it as one does but no matter how well he jerked his hand over his cock he never thought it was worth venturing out there for. Not when his father still had access to the media. He didn’t want to think about what that would be like, so there was more alcohol and even more until he could hardly feel a thing. Then he took off his dressing gown, for no reason. His hand fell between his legs but he wasn’t in the mood any longer. He debated wanking just for the sake of it, but then his eyes caught sight of the paper on top of his coffee table. He remembered the look on Potter’s cocky face and he lost all interest. 

It took only a few more minutes before he fell asleep, and he remembered nothing of it the next morning. 

-

Harsh sunlight woke him before the sound of the fireplace roaring to life. It had been a week since Pansy’s visit, though it felt like a lifetime ago since he’d seen her. Surely it wasn’t her again. 

He closed his eyes, thinking perhaps he could get away with ignoring it. 

The sun was in his eyes, even with his lids shut. He had emptied too many bottles. A cold chill traveled over his body, and his eyes opened again as he remembered he’d slept naked again for the millionth time that week. His hands blindly grasped at whatever fabric near him. He heard a distant voice, calling his name. 

“Malfoy?”

Finally, the dressing gown had been caught between the sofa’s cushions and he yanked hard before pulling it on. 

He stumbled to shut the nearest curtains until the living room went dark but for a few escaped rays of sun. He could manage that. He ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed his eyes, and prayed he looked like he’d had fun last night instead of knocked out cold and alone.

Then he stumbled around again, and fell to his knees by the fireplace. 

“What?”

 _Oh_. 

“Oh,” he ran his fingers through his hair. 

“Malfoy,” Potter’s head was floating in his fireplace. Every curl on his head looked as if it was there on _purpose_. His face was clean but for a day’s old stubble. His glasses were new, the same ones on the paper. He looked clean, put together. Inhumanely perfect, Draco thought. Absolutely no one looked like that. It was near impossible to look that symmetrical, that purposeful, that organized. It drove him wild for a moment.

“Wrong floo,” he managed to utter. 

“No, you see,” Potter licked his lips, and his eyes drifted to something off-frame Draco couldn’t view. “I’m calling for the ad?”

“What ad?” Draco wanted nothing more than a steaming cup of tea. Perhaps some eggs Benedict on an English muffin would also serve well at this moment, but he hardly knew how to poach eggs let alone attempt a hollandaise sauce. Salazar, he missed having elves around. 

“About the portrait?”

“I read about that in the paper," Draco said, absentmindedly. 

“Yes, I gathered so from your application."

“Application?” Draco’s mouth went dry the second he interrupted Potter.

Potter regarded him unsurely. “This application? In my hand?”

There was a rustling sound of paper. The application, from the paper, in Potter’s hand.

“What the fuck is that?”

“The application,” Potter said, slowly, as if speaking to a child.

Draco quickly looked at the coffee table. The paper was there, where he'd left it last week. He was certain he hadn’t touched it. He’d taken one good look at it and felt sick. For fuck’s sake, it made him lose his interest in _wanking_. 

“One second, Potter,” he held up a shaky finger, scrambled to his feet, and grabbed the paper. Then he tripped his way back to the fireplace. The fire emitted enough light so that Draco could flip through the pages. _Last page, last page_ , he thought as fingers scrambled. 

There it was. The application. It was untouched. 

Draco breathed a sigh of relief. “There must be a mistake.”

Potter frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Draco held up the paper. “See, the application on _my_ paper is empty. I never filled out an application, Potter. Someone must be pulling your leg.”

“Unless there’s another Draco Malfoy,” Potter frowned again. “Listen, can we talk about this? I can step through if you’d let me access-“

“No.”

“Malfoy,” Potter sighed, pinching his temples. “If this is about Hogwarts or the war or your father-“

“No, Potter. This isn’t about any of that. This is about my house being in shambles, you’d woken me up from my sleep-“

“It’s past noon, Malfoy. And I’d hardly call that a _house_. Fine, don’t let me through. However, I need to know whose paintings were submitted under your name.”

“Show me, then.”

“Through the floo?” Potter seemed frustrated, now. “Malfoy, I grew up in the boys’ dorms. There’s hardly anything I can’t handle.”

“I can see you clearly.”

“All right,” Potter sighed. He gestured for something, and a handful of glossy pages flew into his hands. “Here. Do you recognize whose art this is? I know this is unorthodox but it’s the only application I thought worthy of consideration. If this isn’t yours I gather you might be familiar with other artists since it appears to be your scene.”

Potter flipped through images of various paintings. Oil paintings of Hogwarts in the dead of winter, of the great lake, the shrieking shack, and the forbidden forest.

“Honestly, these should be signed," Potter remarked with frustration. 

Detailed oil paintings of Hagrid, McGonagall, and Snape. None moving, because that was complicated magic. Then away from Hogwarts. Paintings of clandestine dinners, of shapeless forms in mid-dance. Of glasses filled with champagne to the brim, of proper clothes and even proper postures. Then images of the Malfoy manor, mid-summer, some time long before Voldemort tainted it with a permanent gloom. Potter flipped through more images. Draco saw paintings of a summer house in the south of Europe, the smell of raspberry jam and that delectable sound of foreign accents and buzzing bees.

“Stop.”

“You recognize the artist?”

“Yes,” Draco shut his eyes. It was far too early for this. 

With his wand, he spelled the curtains open. Empty bottles clinked and flew their way into the kitchen. He ran his fingers through his hair again. “They’re mine.”

“But you said you had nothing to do with it.“

“Pansy submitted them,” Draco sighed. “I apologize for wasting your time, Potter. Pansy has the habit of meddling.”

“Oh,” Potter frowned, again. When he did, his brows creased and cast a brilliant shadow over his eyes. 

“Look, I’m not interested in painting you. Unfortunately, I do not paint live subjects nor do I wish to begin any time soon. Besides, I have no previous experiences in that department and I believe you may have better luck searching elsewhere. I recommend extending the application deadline. It seems unlikely I am your best option.” Draco took a deep breath. “Good luck, Potter.”

“Thank you?” It seemed his expression was perpetually stuck in confusion.

“You’re very much welcome.” Draco disconnected the floo call, and that was the end of it. 

-

Except it wasn’t. 

Days passed and the call for a portrait painter spread across the front page of every British paper. Draco had to sit and wonder how much it must have cost Potter to display his desperate face across every fucking newspaper. 

A week passed, and the ads continued to appear on the front page. Draco had the urge to yell. He had the terrible instinct to write an angry letter addressing the Prophet concerning the nearly pornographic image of Potter scowling as he had coffee at a Muggle café, applications piled on top of his table. 

Draco assumed Potter wasn’t having any luck. He wanted this to end, and it didn’t help that Pansy was sending him angry notes via owl demanding an explanation. 

_Draco_ , 

_As you know I am away for my annual visit to see Mother in Cannes. Still, I’ve caught wind of the situation and demand an explanation. On Salazar, Draco, if you don’t accept Potter’s offer I will resend your application._

_Lovingly,_

_Pansy_

_Lovingly?_ Draco balled up the note and threw it into the fire. 

He locked himself in the study and spent the rest of his afternoon attempting another painting. However much he hated to admit it, since the Potter fiasco he’d hardly had any luck with painting. 

He wanted this madness to end. He wanted to go back to painting without having to think of Potter’s cursed ad and Pansy’s insistent letters from France. 

For a moment, he considered Pansy’s letter. The man wasn’t sore on the eyes, and Draco could already envision where he’d have him sit, which lighting and mood he would go for, which colors would best capture his essence. Perhaps then he'd get rid of both Potter and Pansy’s constant reappearances in his thoughts. Pansy’s whiny, snobbish voice and Potter’s annoying frowning eyes. He scoffed.

No, he would ignore the both of them. Besides, he hardly wanted to gain any attention from the media. Surely, they’d catch wind of Potter choosing _his_ art, and have a field day of it. What would Narcissa and Lucius think of him bending down on both knees for the Savior’s blessing? His mother would frown and his father would drone on and on about how the times had changed, and how Potter was once but a poor boy born to two incompetent parents. 

Though Draco wouldn’t know. He couldn’t recall the last time he spoke to his father, and he hardly cared about his opinion any longer. 

His mother, on the other hand, that was an entirely different matter. 


	4. Chapter 3

Narcissa Malfoy was a proud woman. She always was and always would remain one of the most impeccably dressed women. She made sure to wear the best shirts, skirts, or dresses. Skirts always fell right below her knees, and she only wore her sleeves short if the summer heat was unbearable. 

However, it was not summer. It was the dead of winter. Comforted by the large fire in her Parisian flat, Narcissa wore a knitted sweater and long skirt that barely brushed across her ankles. Paris was cold, and Draco sat strategically so that the warmth from the fire could spread through his toes first. 

His mother had made tea. 

Since the end of the war, many countries had set up strict laws to prevent the owning of elves. Although many have conducted research that would suggest how detrimental that was to the mental and physical wellbeing of thousands of elves across the magical world, the consensus was to prevent any mistreatment towards elves and that included unpaid labor.

France had perhaps the strictest laws in that regard, and England did not fall far behind. 

Personally, Draco wasn’t sure where he stood on the argument. 

His mother making tea with her own hands was almost endearing if not slightly worrying. Draco worried about her nearly constantly. He detested thinking of how alone and isolated she must feel in her flat while his father served time in Azkaban, and Draco took his place as head of the manor. 

“Ce n’est pas grave,” she would always say. “Besides, Parisians always know how to dress.”

Now they sat facing the fire, with warm mugs of tea in their hands as a comfortable silence took hold of the room. 

“How is Pansy doing?” his mother asked. 

“Wonderful,” he winced. “Though irritable at times.”

“And painting?”

“A joy as long as it remains a hobby,” he muttered over his tea.

His mother frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Pansy,” he sighed halfway. “Pansy believes it should be more.”

“Than a hobby?” his mother’s smile was subtle. 

“Have you glanced at the English papers by any chance? They’ve been a true mess.”

“That Potter business?” she asked. “I hardly understood what all the fuss was about.”

“I agree with you on that, Mother.”

“Oh,” she smiled a little wider. “Oh,  _ Pansy _ . She’s simply looking out for you, Draco.”

“Imagine Father’s face if I-“

His mother waved a delicate hand in the air and took a sip of her tea. Her hair had been turning whiter by each visit. She rarely attempted to conceal it, though her skin appeared healthy and hardly any new wrinkles formed since after his father’s trial. “Don’t worry about that, Draco. Your father is a grown man. Paint whatever you like. I’ve told you this a million times.”

“I know,” Draco’s fingers grasped his mug. “I just can’t imagine this going well.”

“Then let’s talk of something else, shall we? How is my sister and her grandson fairing?”

Draco could hardly report on Teddy’s activities, but he regularly received Andromeda’s letters in the mail.

“There is a new year’s dinner though I hardly think it appropriate given-“

“Oh, posh, Draco,” his mother’s eyes twinkled. “You will most certainly attend.”

“Mother, I don’t think that would be a great idea.”

“Nonsense,” she stood and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. “I shall write to Andromeda this moment and confirm your attendance, and apologize for my absence.”

“Potter will be there, I know he will.”

“Even better, then,” Narcissa stood at her desk, scrawling a letter to her sister in that bold and brilliant hand of hers. “A casual meeting to discuss your new partnership.”

Draco sat speechless. There was no way around it, as his mother’s owl swooped in from the other room and caught the sealed letter between her talons. 

Narcissa sat on her chair again, and turned to Draco with her cup in hand. “There. What were you saying about Teddy?”

Draco set his tea cup aside, losing all interest in food or drink. “He seems to be doing quite well for a child his age.”

His mother’s eyes twinkled again, and Draco wished more than ever to be back in his secluded manor.

* * *

Of course, there was the option of not attending the dinner at all.

Though the idea of Andromeda’s disappointment after their semi-regular exchange of letters sat poorly in his gut.

“Are you even listening to me?” Pansy asked over the loud wave of European accents and the usual sounds of a busy café. 

“Sorry, you were saying?”

He’d sent her a quick letter while he’d attempted getting away from his mother’s flat. It was rare that their family visits ever aligned, and he’d taken the advantage of seeing Pansy in a foreign land away from the daunting manor. 

Now he felt guilty for taking her time only to fail incredibly at listening. 

“Mother is insistent on marrying me off? Can you imagine me married?” she scoffed over her cup of black coffee. “She does this every time I visit, and it’s always the same kind of old, rich French man who’d probably murder his wife than let her do anything worth her time.”

“That seems rather old-fashioned,” Draco frowned. He had yet to touch his slice of chocolate cake. Suddenly the idea of something so sweet made his stomach churn.

“Mother  _ is _ old fashioned. Why am I surprised?” She shook her head, and looked away. Although Pansy always maintains an air of nonchalance, Draco’s experience in knowing that the glint in her eyes held back tears. He reached out with his hand to cover her fingers. 

“You won’t marry any of them, Pansy. You don’t have to.”

She bit her lip, and looked at him solemnly. “She says it’s my duty.”

“She said Voldemort wasn’t a bad man,” Draco reminded her. “Our parents make mistakes. This could be another.”

Pansy looked at him, properly. “What if she’s right and I’ll never find-“ 

“You will.”

“Like I did before?” she’d chopped off her pin-straight hair right after Hogwarts, and it shaped her face wonderfully, he thought. “With you? With Blaise?”

“No, none of that crap from school,” he said. “That doesn’t count.”

She laughed, nodding her head, and her hair danced with the movement. “I know. I mean, when was I ever in a real relationship? Nothing seems genuine. That man I met at the pub last week is nowhere to be found after a quick fuck. I don’t think I mind.”

Draco smiled, “You don’t have to mind. Right?”

She kicked his shins beneath the table.

She let go of his hand, and took claim of her cup of coffee again. She shook her head and waved a hand in the air. “Fuck her. I have a lifetime to decide when to settle down and with whom.” 

Draco cracked a surprised smile, and found the will to lift his fork. “Have a bite.”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your business with Potter,” she smiled, after taking a bite of chocolate cake. “I warned you last time, and you didn’t listen.”

Draco suddenly wished he was elsewhere. “Don’t avoid your angry sentiments and turn this conversation on me, Pans.”

She laughed. “Oh, I’m over that. I’d much rather torment you on this. You refused Potter, and now he’s irritated every reader of the English press. Perhaps if we don’t do something about it soon, the rest of Europe will join in on our torture.”

Draco attempted to ignore her. “How much do you think it costs to pay for an ad on the front page of every newspaper every day of every week?”

“Potter is rich,” her eyes widened. “Another reason to accept his offer. Who knows, perhaps the more you refuse, the higher the price he demands. Oh, Draco. You might actually be on to something.”

A playful, terrifying look came across her face. “Pansy don’t-“

She raised her arms up. “I’m not planning anything.”

“Good, because I might actually be seeing him soon and I’d much rather avoid this matter altogether.”

“ _ Seeing  _ him? And you planned on announcing this when exactly?”

“Well I’m only assuming he’s going to attend Aunt Andromeda’s New Year’s dinner and I happen to be invited. I would refuse of course, but mother caught wind of the matter and she quite literally forced my hand.”

Draco scowled as he glanced outside the café window and recalled his mother’s insistence. After all, he was  _ assuming  _ that Potter was attending. Perhaps he wouldn’t, perhaps he already had plans with the Weasleys, and Draco would be free of him. After all, Draco had a long and awful history of assuming things about Potter that weren’t necessarily true in the end. Oftentimes, the truth revealed itself a few moments too late and Draco was caught in the mess of the aftermath. Potter wasn’t one to be described as predictable, and Draco’s assumptions were no exception to that rule. 

Perhaps, even, Potter would be out of the country. Some sort of business trip. Not that Draco was certain what it was exactly that Potter did for a living. He seemed to be involved in everything. 

Draco was slowly beginning to relax. 

Pansy was conniving, he thought. “That’s the perfect opportunity to announce your reconsideration of his offer, Draco. I’m sure even if you don’t mention it, he will. He’s so desperate it’s hilarious. More desperate than you were in 5 th year when you-“

“All right, Pans. I understand.” 

“You’ll accept, then?” she smiled slyly. 

“Perhaps,” he mumbled, and indicated to a passing waiter for extra coffee. 

Perhaps, perhaps not. 

Nonetheless, a certain feeling bloomed at the pit of his stomach, and suddenly New Year’s felt like ages away. 

Conversation drifted into less serious matters, and Draco nearly forgot about the dinner at Aunt Andromeda’s. He lost track of time, in endless conversations with Pansy over chocolate cake and coffee. 


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I'm bored so here's a new chapter sooner than usual :-)

Painting wasn’t easy when Draco narrowed down his subject of interest. 

His fingers insisted on drawing up memories from Hogwarts, splashing color across canvas representing everything remotely related to Scotland’s greenery and the old castle’s gray walls. There was the Shrieking Shack in awful details, Slytherin’s common rooms, an imaginary glimpse into Ravenclaw’s quarters, and a cheeky view of Hogwarts’ kitchens.

When he wasn’t painting, Draco would stress loose thread from his favorite throws, facing the fire as he sketched images in his mind. Sometimes when he was sick to his stomach at the scent of paint and turpentine, Draco sketched with charcoal into a rather minuscule sketchpad. There, he let his mind set free. There, he drew what he could never will himself to paint onto a larger canvas. 

He imagined the iridescent glint of mermaids’ tails, of Hogwarts’ toilets and an unfathomable amount of blood. Then of Slytherin boys, with their green and silver ties, rustled hair, haphazard attempts of looking presentable in their robes at seven in the morning. Of Ravenclaw girls, loose hair or tied in plaits for days. Of skirts right above the knees, and whispered conversations over breakfast and anonymous valentine’s. 

It was appalling how long it took to draw his childhood, how long it took to remember a particular smile, or a certain shade of rose colored cheeks, and do nothing but imitate it in black and white. He forced the images to spring from his mind, urged himself to remember every bit of it until his chest ached and his fingers went numb.

As hard as he tried, he couldn’t recall a time before Hogwarts. What had he been doing before? Who had he spoken to? His parents? 

He tried to recall a time before Voldemort. Who had his father been? 

Draco recoiled at the many sketchbooks dedicated to just that. Father’s gentle hands, pointy fingers, pale skin, paler hair. Voldemort, twisting and turning him into an awful man, with sharper nails, and sharper eyes. Sharp everything, for the amount of weight his father lost those years had him resembling a needle or thread. Draco hardly recognized the charcoal rendition of the man he used to call  _ papa _ . 

The only French he recognized nowadays was the lilting, graceful one his mother spoke to him gently. Sometimes she wrote her letters in French, to assure Draco would not forget the language he grew up hearing. The lovely words his parents used to exchange, and there was no translation for the kind of language the three of them shared. Until Voldemort twisted it into something vile, only spoken in desperation and at moments when the line between life and death was blurred and Draco lost all trace of time. 

Suddenly, it was hours before Andromeda’s New Year’s dinner. Christmas had passed unceremoniously. Pansy and his mother sent him trinkets he placed atop the fireplace, accompanied by short yet sweet letters. He celebrated by drinking and painting. 

The children might be put to sleep, Draco thought. If so, who would entertain him when conversations lulled, and he was slowly but surely pushed out of conversation? He’d owled a fine bottle of wine upon his mother's recommendation, a few days earlier. It sat on the table nearest to the fire, so he wouldn’t forget. 

Minutes passed by slowly. Draco paced the halls of the Manor, thinking, speculating, conspiring, then being filled with guilt, then nerves all over again. Of course, it must be a pity invite. They must have run out of relatives, they must be out of town. 

He fretted over his robes. He hadn’t gone out among wizards and witches in ages, who knew if this was still in style? He stood in front of the mirror, struggling to tame his hair. It looked pale, under dim lighting. He still had a few hours to go, yet it was dark out, and he could hardly recognize himself. He looked so much like his father, it was sickening. He could hardly look at himself any longer. He made sure his hair was all right, that his skin didn’t look too pale, and then he waited by the raging fire, attempting to distract himself by writing a lovely letter to his mother in French. 

His cheeks pinked so near to the fire. It was a few minutes until 11. He gripped the invite in his hand, memorizing the address that would whisk him into Salazar knows where. With his other hand, he tightened his grip around the neck of the bottle of wine and took a deep breath. 

Draco released a long breath filled with dread, and stepped into the fire. 

* * *

It was so quiet, Draco’s heart may have skipped a beat. 

And then Andromeda stuck her little head through a door, and smiled. 

“Oh, Draco,” she rushed over with open arms. He had no choice but to hug her back. 

“I brought wine.”

“It is so lovely to see you, dear. How long has it been?” She tutted, pulling away to hold him at arm’s length. “Far too long, of course. You look just like your mother at your age. Skin and bones.”

Draco didn’t know what to say, so he pushed the wine into his aunt’s hands, and followed her chat into the kitchen. 

“You’re the first one here,” she announced. “Teddy’s in bed of course. Not here, he’s staying at Molly’s tonight with the rest of the children. I expect the others will be here soon.”

She took another long look at him, and smiled. “Would you be a dear and help with the table?”

Draco turned into a dear, and helped with the table. 

This carried on for at least another ten minutes before the fire blazed, and the hairs on the back of Draco’s neck stood up sharply against his skin. He had his back to the door, and he was absolutely terrified of turning around. 

He questioned, for the millionth time, why he had accepted Andromeda’s invitation. He wondered if it would be too late to revoke his attendance, come up with something urgent and entirely fabricated to get away as soon as he could. 

Lucky or not, it seemed the rest of the invites arrived at the same time. 

Andromeda disappeared into the living room and ushered her guests into the kitchen. 

There seemed to be an awkward lull in greetings when they spotted him, kitchen napkins folded in his hands ready to be placed beneath forks and knives. He wanted to dig his fingers into the napkins until his fingers bled, but he remembered he wasn’t at Hogwarts anymore. 

He recognized Luna Lovegood almost instantly, though it would be difficult not to. She had her blonde hair in two plaits, tied by glittering ribbons to match the glitter coating her eyelids. Her dress was midnight blue, with sparkles and fluttering dragons all around.

She caught his eyes, and rushed to his side. Draco gathered she would remain his party companion, as she chatted away folding napkins by his arm as though he wasn’t on the wrong side the last time they spoke.

Ron, Hermione, George, and Ginny Weasley stood in rapt conversation with Andromeda. They shoved gifts into her arms, sent curious glances at his direction, and continued to thank Andromeda and question her on tonight’s events. 

Harry Potter stood by the kitchen door, pie in hand, whispering softly to whom Draco barely recognized as Longbottom. He barely had a chance to register their presence when Luna engaged him in a series of rapid questions. 

“You paint, Draco?” she fluttered her lashes, but Draco still felt alarmed. It was strange, being at a gathering with no other Slytherins. 

“What?”

“Oh, I can spot oil anywhere. I’m sure no one noticed,” she pointed at a smudge of blue oil paint between his fingers. Draco attempted to rub it off, but it had long sunk into his skin.

“No date?”she asked.

“No,” he said. 

“Is Pansy out of town?” they finished arranging the table, and Draco stood awkwardly near her until someone announced seating arrangements. “I’ve always wanted to pick her brain on matters concerning her heritage. Did you know her great grandfather was the first to discover-“

“All right, Luna?” Harry Potter came up from behind her and squeezed her shoulder. “I’d like a chat with Malfoy, if you don’t mind?”

She smiled brightly. “Not at all, he’s all yours.”

They somehow moved further away from the rest of the group. 

“You reject my offer yet attend my family gatherings?”

“Last I heard you weren’t related to Longbottom,” Draco hoped Potter wouldn’t notice the smudge on his fingers. He wondered if there were any other he’d missed earlier. 

“He’s dating Luna,” Potter brushed off his remark. “What are you doing here, then?”

“Not everything revolves around you, you know that?” 

Potter's lips curved downwards. “That’s quite irrelevant.”

“Is it?” Draco wanted to shut up now, but his mouth had its own ideas. “Did it cross your mind that perhaps I was here for reasons that are entirely unrelated to you? You do know Andromeda is my aunt?” 

Potter looked away, his attention caught perhaps by something happening outside the window behind Draco’s back. “I knew that.”

“Then please do leave me alone tonight. I’d rather not have Aunt Andromeda send an odd letter to my mother.” Draco gave Potter a parting glance. 

Potter was dressed in Muggle clothes that evening. A plush white jumper that fell right about his hips, and straight legged dark jeans that slightly touched below his ankles. He looked calm. His hair was brushed back messily as always, but his skin was even, and glowed underneath Andromeda’s kitchen lights. As always, his dark brows shadowed his eyes, and Draco envied the long and thick lashes that outlined his brilliant eyes. 

He looked away sharply, pushed away, and stood closer to Andromeda. He said hello to Hermione, and asked about her research. He briefly entertained Ron and George about artistic designs for new posters. Ginny sent him a curious smile, and Longbottom attempted to engage him in news concerning Quidditch, appalled when he heard Draco hadn’t followed sports since Hogwarts. 

“There is only half an hour until midnight,” Andromeda announced as she seated them around her dining table. “Let’s eat."

They chatted loudly across the dining table. George and Hermione argued over politics and new pure blood regulations, which Draco expertly tuned out. Ginny, Ron, Harry, and Longbottom decided no team was worthy of supporting this season. Luna and Andromeda discussed Teddy’s new magical powers, and Draco attempted to join in except the food was delicious, and he hardly had time to spare in between mouthfuls of mashed potatoes and Harry’s surprisingly tasty pumpkin pie. 

They tapped champagne glasses, and drank copious amounts of butterbeer. 

It almost felt as though they were back in Hogwarts’ dining hall. 

Then it was five minutes until midnight. They carried their drinks to the backyard while Ron and George set up fireworks. Someone started a countdown, and Draco found himself squeezed between Luna and Hermione. He briefly caught Potter's curious gaze, and then fireworks exploded into the sky. 

Draco attempted to recall the last time he’d had a lovely dinner, this amount of butterbeer, and fireworks so bright he had to take a step back. As he watched the sparks transform into dragons, leaping frogs, sparkling fairies, and a man suspiciously resembling Hagrid, he felt warmth tingle at the base of his stomach. He hardly registered as couples kissed, and Andromeda handed him a slice of carrot cake. 

Ron brought out candies from the store, and someone spelled a warming spell around them as they sat in the backyard. 

“So, shall I consider this your official rejection?” Potter asked. He held out a bottle of fire-whisky, and Draco could hardly say no, so he took it without hesitation. 

Draco mulled the words over in his head. Of course, he had to say no. Even if he wanted to change his mind he couldn’t. It would make him appear weak.

Yet he heard himself say, “Official is a strong word.”

Potter stifled a laugh. “Are you playing hard to get?”

Draco took another swig of the whisky. He wondered if he still smelled like charcoal and oils. If Potter could tell he’d had to rub red paint off his chin that morning, because he had been so focused on his painting. 

“You could ask anybody,” Draco said. “You are Harry Potter.”

“You could say no. I’ve seen many applications, no one’s work is as good as yours.”

“It must be the years I spent brooding.”

Potter looked at him seriously. “Regardless, I expect you’d have a different perspective on the subject matter.”

“ _ You _ are the subject matter.”

“Malfoy, people sent in sketches of myself with angel wings and halos around my head. For fuck’s sake, I looked more like Jesus than myself.”

Draco snorted, and took another drink. He wondered why Potter wasn’t drinking as much. 

“Then you prefer the devil’s tail?”

“I’d prefer a less glorified image of myself.”

Draco examined Potter’s profile. They both sat on the grass by each other, facing Luna and Longbottom's New Year's dance. “I don’t paint moving portraits.”

“I never asked for one.”

Potter picked up their empty bottles and stood up. 

“I’ll think about it,” Draco said. 

“Good.”


	6. Chapter 5

Nothing seemed right the next morning. For one, Draco’s head was raging in unfamiliar pain, despite his increasing consumption of alcohol. 

It was freezing in his bedroom, his legs were hanging off the bed, he was dressed in last night’s shoes, and he’d barely taken a breath before his lungs ached and his throat itched with a desperate need for some form of moisture. 

Images of last night emerged in a slow haphazard order as Draco dragged himself out of bed and attempted to get his life in order. He showered, and remembered the taste of mince pie and treacle tarts. He was brushing his teeth, and remembered the smell of Harry’s breath, reeking of alcohol when he’d leaned too close that one time. 

Over breakfast, he remembered the sparks of a dozen fireworks, and the pressure they left on his eyes. 

It was not until lunch, when he remembered the promise he made when the fire in the living room blazed. 

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. 

Besides that, someone was interrupting his lunch.

Draco begrudgingly dragged his feet towards the fireplace. 

“Mother.”

“Draco,” she was smiling. “Oh, mon chou. How was dinner last night?” 

“It was all right, I suppose.”

“You look as though you hadn’t slept!” 

“We had a few drinks,” he said, rubbing his temples at the memory of that morning’s hangover. 

“Oh, do tell me all about it. How was Aunt Andromeda? I heard Molly Weasley had all the children over. Your aunt loves Teddy too much, I’m afraid. I wondered how she’d go without him for a night.”

“She seemed to enjoy herself,” Draco said, and twisted around to grab the letter from the coffee table. “I wrote her a thank you card.”

“She’ll love that, Draco.” His mother smiled. “Now, tell me everything in detail.”

Draco relayed the events of last night as best as he could recall them. He left out the way fireworks often make his heart stop, and the feeling of being an outsider at his own aunt’s house full of strangers. He remembered Potter’s proposition, the way his eyes gleamed even in the night’s sky when he spoke with his arms waving around everywhere. 

“I’m afraid I may have made a mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?”

Draco shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ll write to you sometime this week, mother. Take care. I am expecting another call.”

His mother said her goodbyes, and promised a package of Paris’ finest chocolates. 

The fire went out, and Draco reignited it with his wand. He brought his cold lunch over to the living room, and sat facing the fire. 

When he finished his lunch, his fingers instinctively reached out for his sketchpad. Charcoal stained his fingers, as he sketched pictures of pies and cakes, of curly hair, and pointy fingers. 

He thought of Luna, and how quick she noticed the oil between his fingers. He assumed she could paint, or that she’d made a lucky guess. Nonetheless, he wondered why Potter hadn’t approached her. He remembered something about paintings looking like Jesus but was that really a bad image? 

Draco glanced at his sketchpad, and noticed at least a dozen of charcoal sketches all depicting Potter’s new glasses. 

He wanted to crawl into a ball and shut his eyes for an eternity, but he knew how much of an inconvenience that would be to his mother, or Pansy. 

He set the sketchpad aside somewhat aggressively, and for the first time in what must have felt like years, Draco began arranging his painting studio. It was time to turn it into his own painting space, and not a messy part of his father’s old study. 

-  
He must have taken ages because when he wandered back into the living room, fingers aching, spine twisting, feet numb with pins and needles, he found two letters on the top of the fireplace. 

Draco first reached for the one addressed to him by Pansy. It was a scribbled note demanding his presence and questioning his lack of appearance at the fireplace. Draco was grateful his father never bothered to install a floo connection in his study. 

The other was from Potter, another demand for a response. Except the moment Draco was about to chuck both messages to blaze, the fire sparked. 

Of course, it was Potter. 

“There you are. Can I step in?”

Draco looked around. He looked down at his bent knees pressed to the floor, fingers pale and twisted into the seams of his shirt. “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

“Draco-“

“Potter,” Draco interrupted. “The Manor is in no shape for visitors.”

Potter’s eyes tried to seek something from behind Draco, but Draco couldn’t care less. He moved to cover Potter’s vision, and wished for nothing more than for this conversation to end. He couldn’t believe this had to be his problem now. That Potter was his problem now. Again. As though they were teenagers, again. 

Except Potter’s childish face was no longer round. It was sharp, his nose defined, and his jaw pronounced and angled. 

“Then step through here,” Potter sighed. “The office isn’t in top shape either, but because you insist.”

“I do no such thing.”

Draco wondered if entertaining Potter was perhaps doing more bad than good.

Potter ran his fingers through his hair. “Will you come through or not?”

“All right,” Draco brushed his fingers over his shirt and prayed he would only come into contact with Potter and nobody else. “I will. Move aside.” 

The whoosh of the floo almost had him stumbling at the other end, and Draco could have sworn something flew into his eyes. 

“Easy there, Malfoy.” Potter stretched a hand to steady him, but withdrew when Draco promptly straightened out.

Potter’s office was a mess. Stacks of books and papers littered the top of every tabletop. Medals and certificates decorated the walls, alongside an array of images of family and friends. A coffee station took up the majority of the empty space left, and Potter flicked his wand to get it started. 

“Cup of coffee?”

“Tea, please.” Although Draco could use a dash of something stronger. 

Potter gestured at the chair in front of his desk, and Draco took a tentative seat. The dark wooden desk was covered in files, pictures, travel trinkets, and what appeared to be a Muggle telephone. Draco hardly recognized half the things on the desk, so he watched Potter grab one cup of coffee and one cup of tea. 

He placed the cups on the desk, no coaster or saucer, and sat on the other end. Draco felt as though he was meeting with Snape or Dumbledore, and the memory of those two men reminded him that Potter was not his friend despite their recent contact. 

The somewhat ill lit office cast gray shadows across Potter’s face. Draco thought if he had an office like this at the Ministry, he would not go easy on lighting or decoration.

He held his cup tight in his hands, allowing the heat to ground him as he waited for Potter to speak. When he didn’t, and the silence grew uncomfortable, Draco decided to take matters into his own hands. 

“You called me here?”

“Ah, yes,” Potter cleared his throat and haphazardly yanked a paper from one of the stacks on his desk. “I had Hermione draw up a contract.”

“A contract-” Draco felt sick. 

“I am aware of your hesitation, and we took that into consideration,” Potter announced, as though rehearsed. His fingers pushed the contract closer to Draco. 

Draco felt small again. He hated the short chair, the large desk, the dim lighting, and the feeling as though he was at Hogwarts again. As though someone was forcing his hand, as though Voldemort had threatened him once again. 

He felt sick, as though he was about to make a mess all over Potter’s fancy desk. He clutched the tea, and took a sip. 

“Fucking hell, a million galleons?” Draco set the cup down, almost tipping over its content. “Are you insane?”

“I’d like to think not.” Potter drew up more papers. 

They were images of Draco’s paintings. Of the giant squid, of the tournaments, of dragons and Hagrid’s garden. There were others, stacks of images that made Draco’s skin tingle.

He reached for them with his fingers, flipping through them slowly. “How did you get these?”

“Pansy must have sent them in with your application.” 

“I have no idea how she found these.”

“Probably had photos taken and scanned the Muggle way,” Potter said with a smile. “They are brilliant, Malfoy.”

A million galleons. Of course, Draco could live without the money. Even with assets frozen, he could still get by. Yet he thought of his mother, alone in a Parisian flat. Of course, he wanted her in a summer house in the south of France, away from increasing Muggle pollution, and the dangers of theft and lack of proper companionship. 

“The price is negotiable of course,” Potter added. “This is what we came up with after some digging. This is the average fee in total, however I am willing to pay if you need extra hours.”

Draco stifled a laugh. “You are insane, Potter. Extra hours. You don’t know if I’m good at portraits.”

Potter pulled out other images. Of formless shapes dancing under chandeliers. Hogwarts students, walking down endless halls. “I can imagine.” 

“But we hate each other.” This was Draco’s last resort. 

“It would be strictly business of course. You can set your personal feelings aside and so can I when it comes to getting what I want.”

Draco realized this wasn’t the Potter he knew from Hogwarts. This was hardly the Potter he met at Aunt Andromeda’s gathering. This was Potter but older, and wiser. With wisps of gray hair which he only noticed just now, premature signs of aging perhaps due to stress. 

Strictly business. More than a million galleons for a portrait. A summer house for Narcissa, who may never return to England. 

“Salazar,” Draco finished the last bit of tea he had left. 

“You can think about it,” Potter said. “But I can’t keep running these ads.”

“All right.”

Potter paused. “All right?”

“I shall let you know of my official decision…soon.”

“You shall…?” Potter collected the images into a folder and set it aside. 

Draco pushed away from the desk and stood. “What is this for? The portrait.”

Potter scratched the back of his neck. “Nothing I know for certain. I can’t…I can’t say. Would that be a problem?”

“We don’t know yet, do we?”

Potter looked at him again, as though assessing him for the first time since Draco stepped through the floo. “No, I guess we don’t.” 

Of course, the second Draco was home, he flood Pansy. 

“You’re taking it, though, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am, I just needed to keep him on edge.”

Pansy laughed. “Draco, you fool.”

“This isn’t a ploy, is it?” Draco thought of Slytherin dungeons, of the basement downstairs, of how cold it’s been in the Manor lately. 

“What do you mean?” she frowned. 

“I mean, this is Potter and his crew. He works for the ministry, Pansy. What does he do? He catches people like us. His friends are the reason mother is in France. Father deserves Azkaban, the bastard. But mother? Blaise?”

“Me,” Pansy quipped. Although Pansy knew she hardly scraped by because her father always kept a foot at each side of the door. “Draco, you’re overthinking it. Think of the galleons, and your mother. Potter has contacts everywhere, Draco. This could mean something to Blaise, too. This could help all of us.”

Blaise had nothing to do with the war. But the institutions in place allowed discrimination on basis of Hogwarts Houses. Hermione Granger had a lot to say about it on New Year’s, and Draco was aware things were likely to change soon. But how soon? 

“You wouldn’t have to marry an old French man,” Draco said.

Pansy waved her hand. “I did this for you. I can manage mother’s unrealistic standards, darling.” 

Slytherins were only allowed to work in a few places, already. They often had to work in rough places, as back up forces for Aurors and Unspeakables. Even with high-risk professions, they were always paid less than others. Some got away with it through forms of corruption and nepotism. He knew the privilege he had to accept Potter’s offer. He knew why Pansy had done it. 

Although he would have to sacrifice the sanctity of the Manor, and probably have Potter sit at his father’s study, Draco knew he would have to at least try to make things work. He owed it to Potter for ending the war, to Pansy for being a friend, and to his mother.


	7. Chapter 6

Pansy visited the Manor the day after Draco signed the contract. 

Draco insisted portrait sessions took place at the Manor. Potter hardly resisted, and Draco knew how unlikely it was for him to step into someplace like Potter’s house. The idea of it made him almost laugh.

“We have to clean the curtains in the living room, clean up the mess at the entrance, and somehow rearrange the study,” Pansy announced at the door. “We’re starting here because Potter is unlikely to wander off, however we will manage the rest of the Manor eventually.”

“Must we?”

“Yes.” She gave him a critical look. “Businesses mainly rely on word of mouth.”

“ _ Businesses _ ?” Draco raised his voice, but Pansy shot a hand up and waved him off. 

“Get started. I’ll do curtains for now, you clean up the mess you’ve made on your mother’s favorite Persian rug.”

They must have spent hours scouring the living room and making sure it was fit for a royal visit. Winter did not allow for much sunlight, however when Pansy took down the curtains with her wand, a fresh sort of brightness shone through the glass windows and filled the room with new life. Draco watched as rain poured onto the courtyard, and then continued to apply cleaning spells on nearly every surface. 

They worked until the cushions were fluffed to perfection, tables were polished just right, and the rug looked brand new. The curtains no longer had holes in them, or collected dust from years of lack of maintenance. The fireplace was cleaned out, logs replaced, and picture frames scrubbed until shining. 

“I think the tapestry needs a deeper clean so I will be sending it home with me. I know just the right witch.” She crossed her arms over her chest and viewed the room with content. “I think we should have a fresh bouquet of flowers on the table, and perhaps a plant in the corner over there. Otherwise we are ready to move on to the study, I believe.”

“At this moment?” Draco wanted to lay on the newly cleaned sofa and catch a quick nap. Perhaps after having a drink.

“Yes, Draco,” Pansy rolled her eyes. “Although we could have a drink first.”

The flowers needed tending, she reminded him. The garden was hopeless for now, but at least the flowers by the main door should be kept. She would send someone to revive the roses soon, she promised. The foyer was easy to clean and arrange. Draco spelled some tapestries up to the attic, and Pansy had to use a few spells to rid of cobwebs. 

“The study,” he said. “I tried to clean a while ago but…”

“Let me through.”Pansy nearly shoved him aside and pushed the heavy doors open. 

Canvases on the floor leaned against the walls of the study so that there was hardly room to maneuver. The smell of turpentine and paint hung heavy like a cloud, as there was hardly any form of ventilation. 

Lucius’s desk at the far end of the room was clean and organized, hardly touched since the war. The window behind it allowed for sufficient lighting, which Draco took advantage of while painting. However, many of the books from the shelves that lined the walls were knocked down, perhaps from loose spells or the Manor’s ancient magic. 

Draco’s several easels held unfinished paintings, and the floor around them was covered with a white sheet which held his paints, oils, and pallets. 

“I love these paintings,” Pansy said, walking towards the nearest easel. “Is this Paris?”

“Or a vague resemblance of it.” Draco looked away, unable to bear the idea of someone else looking at his work. 

“These canvases should go up on the walls by the entrance,” Pansy said, waving her wand. “The others we can keep in the attic until we clean the rest of the Manor, yes?”

“I don’t know about having them hanging on every wall-“ 

Pansy silenced him with a sharp twist of her brows. “Now, about your working station, I think we may need to consult a catalogue of sorts and import supplies.”

The rest of the day followed a similar pattern. By sunset, the study was void of any old paintings, only a few of their favorites remained. The white sheets on the floor were removed, revealing another rug that needed a deep clean. The pallets, paints, and oils were stored in boxes, and would later be arranged in an organized fashion once the items requested arrived. 

“I can’t have you do everything for me,” Draco said, as Pansy got ready to leave via floo.

“Draco,” she said, “your task is to paint. Leave the rest to me.”

By nightfall, Draco felt exhausted. His bedroom was void of life since he frequently fell asleep in the study or living room. Somehow, he was grateful for that, as he pulled back the sheets and sunk into his pillows. He looked up at the ceiling, and whispered a chant his mother taught him. The white paint turned a dark shade of blue as shining stars formed constellations. 

He fell asleep shortly after that, sober for the first time in what felt like months, if not years. 

* * *

The next morning wasn’t very different. Draco made what hardly resembled breakfast, and Pansy sent him a list of instructions by owl. 

He spent the morning cleaning out the rest of the study. He arranged his paints and supplies in wooden carts, set aside some of his pending works by the door, and propped up a fresh canvas on an easel in the center of the study. 

He wasn’t sure when Potter would arrive, and Draco wasn’t in a hurry to find out. He made sure he had all the colors he thought he would need, and then tried to sketch from memory with charcoal on a notepad. His attempts were fruitless, and he only hoped seeing Potter in person would improve his sketches. 

Draco made a floo call to his mother, and left out financial details. Narcissa was curious over the new connection between the two young men. She always thought they would get along in theory, if only Lucius and the fate of the wizarding world hadn’t gotten in the way. 

Draco ended the floo connection, and the silence which echoed felt lonelier than it ever had. He thought of the mess in the kitchen, garden, and rest of the Manor he had to take care of. The very idea had him exhausted. 

Without Pansy around, or the sound of the fire crackling, the Manor suddenly felt large and gloomy again. He wasn’t sure how he’d fair with Potter’s portrait. Of course, he hoped things would play out smoothly for the sake of Pansy and everybody else. However, personally he thought his and Potter’s attitudes would clash. 

In the meantime, Draco swept through the study for any books on live paintings.

This was difficult. Painting was one of the few hobbies encouraged by Purebloods which didn’t involve the use of magic. Therefore, his father’s books were useless. Any Muggle-related media was most probably incinerated. 

Draco wandered up the stairs to his mother’s room, but found nothing there either. He scoured the rest of the rooms, and found a book on painting techniques but none he wasn’t already familiar with. 

Defeated, Draco trudged down the creaking stairs and into the living room. 

The fire crackled, and a beautiful white owl flew to the window ledge.

The window was difficult to wrench open, and when Draco managed, a gust of cold wind rushed into the living room and set his hairs on end. 

_ Malfoy,  _

_ I transferred the agreed galleons to your Gringotts account. Yes, it wasn’t easy. Yes, they double checked and yes, I was met with strange looks. Not that you care.  _

_ Anyway.  _

_ When should we get started? Should we set up some sort of schedule, or are you free whenever I’m free? _

Draco scoffed. 

_ Let me know, I guess.  _

_ Potter _

Draco found a stack of papers and pen, fed the owl some treats, and started writing his response. 

He wasn’t surprised Potter thought Draco’s schedule should revolve around his. Not that Draco wasn’t at the Manor almost every day of the year. He thanked him for the deposit as formally as he could, although his fingers were slightly trembling and his heart was pounding at the idea of that much money in his vault and the pressure of painting now. 

_ Yes, a schedule should be more sufficient,  _ Draco scratched on.  _ However, it can be flexible and you are allowed to postpone each session. I understand your schedule may be tight, but we should meet at least once a week to get this done sooner rather than later.  _

Draco thought for a moment. Meeting Potter once a week on a pre-arranged schedule. And willingly. He thought he could hear his father all the way from Azkaban, criticizing him for stooping so low and tainting the Malfoy legacy. Or whatever was left of it. 

The owl flew off in a flurry of feathers. 

Draco made a mental note to ask Pansy whether investing in his own owl was a clever idea. At least now he had the use for it. 


	8. Chapter 7

After sending letters back and forth, and one brief impromptu meeting over the floo, Potter arrived early on a Sunday morning.

The front garden was in shambles as always. Draco cringed, but stomached the idea of Potter’s first impression. 

Pansy had sent Neville Longbottom the week prior, who taught Draco various spells to revive the roses at the front door. 

Longbottom had taken one look at the garden, and his posture visibly drooped. “We have a lot of work cut out for ourselves.”

“The garden was Mother’s hobby.”

Longbottom seemed ill at ease. Nonetheless, Draco learned the charms that Longbottom cast on the roses and reenacted them for good measure. Apparently, Neville had a plant shop at Diagon Alley, where he brewed his own plant-restoring potions. They worked magnificently, Draco thought, and said so out loud. He paid Neville for his services, and found books on gardening in his mother’s room, which he would pore over later. After all, it was hardly good weather for gardening, and to revive other flowers would be meaningless mid-January. Draco would have to focus on other plants for the time being. 

Sunday morning was gray and cold. The white roses in clay vases at the entrance looked stunning, but Draco knew Potter would hardly notice. The clouds hung heavy, and anyone with a good sense for weather patterns knew the menacing clouds bore promise of rain. 

“Cheers,” Potter had said, when Draco promptly opened the door after hearing the bell ring.

Draco suggested he arrive via floo next time, but the Ministry had tight surveillance over the Malfoy Manor still, and Potter was of course aware. 

They agreed, anyway, that no one should know of their business. Not at least until after the painting was done, and any interjection would be useless. 

“It’s bloody cold out,” Potter said, easing the gloves from his fingers as Draco led him to the fire in the living room. 

Potter’s cheeks were stained pink from the cold, and his hair was a mess of something windswept and out of place. 

“Would you like a drink?” Draco asked, wandering to the round table of drinks by the fireplace. “Perhaps Brandy?”

“Firewhisky?”

Draco resisted rolling his eyes, but fetched the old bottle from behind all the others.

“Thanks,” Potter took the bottle and had a swig. He looked around the place, eyes carefully glancing over the remaining furniture. 

Of course, Draco realized. He’d been there before. 

“It looks…different,” Potter said, walking around the room, eyes gazing over tapestries and paintings. 

“Neglected,” Draco corrected. “I realize now the effort Mother made to maintain the Manor.”

“I meant it looks better now,” Potter said, surprising Draco as he met his eyes. Was he meant to feel flattered or offended? “It suits you.”

“As it should,” Draco kept his voice level and light, but in his head the sound of his words echoed loudly. The darkness of the Manor suited him? Perhaps Potter’s perception of him hadn’t changed at all.

“And where would you like to have me?”

Draco’s skin felt warm so near the fire, he wondered if his skin looked as flushed as Potter’s. “Not in here, of course.”

He led them to the study, allowing Potter to enter first before shutting the door behind them. The fireplace was smaller in the study, and so the room was cold and much less inviting. 

Draco was suddenly aware of the potent smell of turpentine, paint, and ancient tomes. The study was small in comparison to the rest of the rooms in the Manor, the walls were bookshelves that carried the oldest books his father could have a hold on. The desk, clean and polished, was perhaps the only inviting furniture. The rug had an old scent to it despite its recent cleanse, and the overall atmosphere of the study was suffocating, similar to any ancient bookstore along Knockturn Alley. 

“I would leave the window open, except the cold would kill us perhaps quicker than the smell,” Draco said, eventually. 

“I don’t mind it,” Potter said, standing awkwardly near the empty canvas on the easel, his eyes roaming the room. “Shall I stand?”

“Of course not.” Draco waved his wand and moved his father’s chair behind the easel, transfiguring it into a much more comfortable bench. The fire crackled, but the rest of the room was still. If Draco wasn’t aware of time, the darkness outside would lead him to believe it was the dead of night. 

“ _Lumos_ ,” he whispered, and the chandelier above them cast a bright light across the room. 

“I do prefer natural light,” Draco said, grabbing his paint pallet from the nearest wooden cart of supplies. “However, this will do for now.”

Draco and Pansy worked on spelling the lights so that when he wanted, Draco could adjust the lighting to mimic that of the sun in the middle of August. 

He almost did so then, but realized he quite liked the way the shadows in the room complimented Potter’s sharp features. 

Potter sat on the chair wordlessly. He resembled a deer caught in headlights. He hadn't any idea how to act, how to sit, what to do with his hands. Was he meant to smile? Frown?

Draco could sense his unease, and set aside his tools. “Are you all right?”

“Define all right.”

“Well this is my first portrait session,” Draco said. “I am as unfamiliar with the process as you are.”

“I’m sure not,” Potter fidgeted, fixing his robes. He’d arrived in a Muggle coat, however once in the living room, had removed the coat to reveal an elegant set of a wizard’s robes. The white shirt underneath the dark robe created a sharp contrast that would be delightful to paint. “At least, I’m sure you’ve done some research.”

Draco, slightly taken aback but amused, questioned him. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, you remind me a lot of Hermione.”

Draco laughed. “Surely she would take offense to that. Besides, no one in the Wizarding World works half as hard as Granger.”

“Perhaps, but both of you could be found behind a stack of books. Tell me, then. Have you not been reading on painting techniques?”

Draco wondered how he could seem so predictable even to Potter, someone who hardly paid him much thought. “I think it would be unprofessional not to be prepared.”

Their dialogue, although lacking in friendliness, somehow managed to ease the bit of tension and uncertainty between them. Potter’s posture was much more relaxed, Draco thought. His uneasy features had disappeared, and he resembled the confident man Draco so often saw on the front page of every paper. 

“Well then,” Draco picked up a charcoal pencil from his cart. “Knowing the purpose behind your request for this portrait would make things easier, Potter.”

“Oh, right,” Potter frowned. “Well, I might as well tell you since you’re practically sworn to secrecy.”

Draco hardly remembered that particular clause in the contract. Of course, he didn’t care. Who would he tell? 

“I promise you the utmost discretion,” he replied, almost teasingly. 

“There’s a chance I’ll be Minister,” Potter said. “Well, a high chance. Of course, your discretion is simply a formality. I’m sure you’re already well aware of the current elections.”

Draco was hardly aware. Of course, he knew in the back of his mind that he must know something about the elections. Pansy must have mentioned it, or Draco himself must have read something about in the papers. However, he was in the habit of ignoring the paper for days on end, and he was notorious for his selective hearing abilities. 

“You are, aren’t you?” Potter frowned, and Draco realized he’d been quiet too long.

“Of course,” he said, though in his mind was a riot. Has it really been that long since the war? How old were they? Was Potter not too young to be Minister? Of course, it made perfect sense. Who else would be better suited than the hero of the Wizarding World? 

“Is it not presumptuous of you to request a portrait before the announcement of your promotion to Minister?” Draco asked. 

“Are you jealous, Malfoy?” though it was clear from Potter’s tone that he only meant it as a jest. “Yes, perhaps a bit presumptuous. However, better safe than sorry. Besides, according to Hermione, the poll seems overwhelmingly in my favor.”

“Well then,” Draco said. “Congratulations is in order.”

“Thank you,” Potter’s eyes shone wickedly underneath the chandelier. “Though this portrait would be more than enough.”

Draco realized how slow he’d been. Of course, it was for Potter’s position as Minister. It was practically tradition to have a portrait done to reveal at the ceremony. Later, the portrait would be hung at the Ministry along with the portraits of all the previous Ministers. 

It was, though, an outdated tradition that many opted out of. Draco wondered why Potter would choose to follow the tradition, given his lack of interest for wizarding traditions in his youth. Perhaps it was a campaign tactic of some sort. Draco vowed to read more of the paper in the future. Although he wanted nothing from wizarding society, information couldn’t hurt. 

“Well, does that help?”

“Pardon?”

“You know the purpose now,” Potter said. “How would you like me to look?”

Draco shifted the easel to have a better look at Potter. “First, your comfort is important. Hence, I believe short but effective visits would work best in your favor. Unfortunately, a portrait fit for a Minister would demand a stiff posture,.”

Potter gave a little laugh. “Is that a pure-blood way of calling me ill-mannered?”

“I had no intention of doing so, but since you mentioned it I can hardly disagree.”

“Well, I was raised by ill-mannered Muggles.” He said it jokingly, but there was an edge to his voice that Draco found intriguing. 

“We’ve wasted your time,” Draco announced after muttering a quick _Tempus_ , also in an effort to change the subject. “We should start now. Perhaps keeping conversation at a minimum?”

Potter smiled, as though he wanted to make another comment but quickly changed his mind. 

Draco focused on the canvas, and started a quick sketch with pencil. Unfamiliar with live painting of a moving subject, he quickly found that Potter was ill-fitted for such a motionless task. Draco had to remind Potter to stop moving nearly constantly, but found that Potter hardly ever minded the remarks. He seemed so different from the ill-tempered teen he was at Hogwarts, but Draco didn’t have the time nor the energy to care. 

“Have you any preferences for color?” he asked. 

“Maybe something neutral,” Potter said. “I’ve seen the other portraits at the portrait hall. I think fitting in would be less of a hassle.”

“I was thinking similarly,” Draco said. “Perhaps some Earth tones. Though a brownish background would be difficult with your hair, I was thinking perhaps a reddish color would do.”

“Yeah,” Potter looked somewhat surprised. “Whatever you think, I guess.”

The session went on similarly. Draco sketched out Potter’s overall figure, outlining where he would have his head as proportioned with the rest of his body. He shifted Potter’s seating, so that his body faced slightly to the left, while his head remained in Draco’s direction. 

The shift seemed to strain Potter’s neck. The turn of his head rendered his stillness the more difficult, that Draco nearly scrapped the canvas altogether. 

He found the process tedious. Was there no easier way to go around this? Though he found himself respecting Potter a tad more, as he began to understand the lengths he’d go to in order to preserve tradition. Draco’s own back ached some time later, though he was used to the standing for long hours at a time. 

Potter shifted slightly again, and the shadows along his face were altered. Draco didn’t mind as much now, but he knew the moment he started with color, that things wouldn’t pass so favorably. 

Once the overall outline was somewhat complete, Draco focused his attention on defining Potter’s features. He found that if he completed that today, then his work in the future sessions would be a lot easier. He thought of these technical matters extensively as he first began by sketching Potter’s eyes. 

Occasionally, Potter would interrupt by asking a question or two, and Draco found he slowly lost irritability. He knew that to Potter; these sessions would be boring and long. At least Draco was at the other end of the canvas, where his hands and mind were occupied. 

It was strange to see the sketch begin to form on canvas. The still image of Potter was already so different from the man before him. Draco realized then, that he hardly ever saw Potter so still and motionless. The images that first spring to mind are usually of him casting the spell that ended Voldemort’s rule, or of Potter atop a broom during a Quidditch game. Though Draco liked to think he hardly thought of the man, in reality he did as much as any other wizard. And when he did so, it was hardly ever of Potter sitting behind a desk at Hogwarts, working on assignments. 

Hours had passed since Potter’s arrival. Although the sketch only consisted of Potter’s face, and a rough idea of his hair, Draco asked if Potter would like to take a look.

“Already?” Potter asked.

“Yes,” Draco said. “Besides, you are long overdue for a stretch.”

Potter stretched comfortably out of his seat. He rolled and cracked his neck, then stretched his arms in front of him before moving behind the canvas. 

Draco suddenly felt self-conscious. Of course, the sketch was simply preliminary, and Potter was free to provide feedback. However, it was rare that even Pansy ever saw the foundation of an incomplete piece.

“Malfoy,” Potter said. “It’s really good. The sketch resembles me perfectly.”

“Well, I left out the shadows and details because I’d much prefer to leave that for painting. And I haven’t quite gotten the right look of your hair. Although, I will say that is partially your fault.” Draco spoke quickly, and cursed himself for sounding nervous.

Potter laughed. “Nothing can tame my hair. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Draco glanced at his hair, now that Potter stood so close to him. “Well, I can’t imagine it looking any different. Nor can I imagine anyone else with the same hair.”

Potter glanced at him briefly, then looked at the portrait again. “Do Sunday mornings work best for you?”

“As I said, nearly every day does.”

Potter had a curious look on his face, though he kept looking at the portrait as he spoke. “Of course. I forget that things are so different these days.”

Draco didn’t quite catch what Potter meant by his saying. Though he could guess that Potter was well aware of the restrictions placed on many Slytherins.

“I’ll show you out,” Draco said. “I think we’ve done more than enough today.”

“Thank you, Malfoy,” and Potter said it so sincerely, that Draco almost allowed himself to believe it. 


	9. Chapter 8

Draco went over the events of the first session with Pansy, who was shocked to learn of it passing so smoothly without conflict.

Draco had left out the part where he’d spent the night turning in his bed, the image of Potter behind the canvas and the still sketch of his form embedded to his mind. 

“We had no opportunity to clash,” Draco said. Though he knew perhaps it was due to that being their first session, and Potter must have restrained himself from cruel remarks. “However, he does seem so different from how he was at Hogwarts.”

“Aren’t we all? Hell, Draco. Even Blaise and Theo have changed significantly. Though the latter most probably from his lack of social status.”

Draco had no reply. He thought of the sketched canvas in his father’s study, only a few steps away from the kitchen where he stood with Pansy. 

Pansy took notes as they walked the perimeter of the kitchen. Draco followed, patching cracks and chipped paint with his wand. 

“He said I reminded him of Granger.”

Pansy raised one thinly plucked brow, and tucked her short dark hair behind her ear. “Well, he does sound different. Perhaps he’s really changed.”

They arranged to have a new kitchen table installed, and several appliances replaced with newer models. Draco enjoyed the old tiled floor and walls too much to have them replaced. Though he would admit they needed a thorough shining spell.

Draco found he detested the process of cleaning the Manor as much as he’d disliked telling Potter what to do and when to stop moving. Part of him wanted to revert back to his previous habit of drinking himself to sleep.

Sometimes, when Pansy would be too busy having her own life to pick up the pieces from Draco’s, he did just that. He would grab a bottle from his collection, and drink until he forgot that he had a job now. He had a real job, which paid real money. He signed a contract with no other than Harry Potter. Then he drank even more, wishing to Salazar that he would wake up and everything would be normal again. That he could say with confidence that Potter was his enemy. At least then he’d be certain of something. 

Other times he would drink simply to forget. His mind had the frequent habit of dredging up memories from his past that he would have preferred to obliviate from his mind for good. Filled with guilt and regret, he often remembered his father before the war. Though with difficulty, because thinking of his father without the tint of the war and how it had changed him so violently, was nearly impossible. He could hardly recall the man who raised him. Thinking of Lucius was similar to thinking of an old professor, who he’d hardly ever liked but perhaps had one good thing to say about him. 

Really, Draco had to admit that Lucius was a stranger to him now. The memory of him pained him only when he allowed it. It pained him when he recalled the loving way his mother would glance up at his father, and the way Draco had been sure their love was stronger than any deal Lucius had ever struck with Voldemort and his lackeys. 

Painting allowed him to forget. Although he was occupied with the tremendous task of painting Potter’s portrait as Minister, Draco’s fingers still itched for another painting. He began working on a new piece, a memory he’d dragged out of his mind. He thought he couldn’t paint another painting until he was finished with Potter’s, but the urge was too difficult to resist.

So between last Sunday and the next, he tried to paint from memory. Of a house in the South of France, where Draco would love to retire, if the Manor didn’t mean so much to him. 

He was no longer afraid of Potter’s judgement of his work, and so he left the painting uncovered. A pile would surely grow in the study that he would have to eventually find the energy to store his paintings elsewhere. For now, he would allow himself one other mess. 

* * *

Though Draco would soon find out that he needn’t worry of Potter’s judgment for an entirely different reason. Potter postponed their meeting to the next Saturday, as he claimed work was difficult to handle that week. Then, he promised to arrive not that Saturday, but the next day on Sunday. However, Draco spent that morning in the living room, looking outside the window for any sign of apparition but finding none. And so, without knowing how to feel about the ordeal, Draco would have to see Potter the week after that. 

He found he wasn’t too bothered. Potter arrived late the next Sunday. He apologized, though it hardly sounded sincere. 

Draco took him to the study, and they began their session as they did last time, though without half as much dialogue.

“Are you upset?”

“Upset?” Draco was frowning. “You’re moving.”

He was outlining Potter’s earlier sketch with a thin coat of paint. Though Potter could move, Draco thought it best to train him this way.

“I canceled twice and I am well aware I arrived late,” Potter said.

“Well, no. We never agreed on a fixed time, and we established that your schedule can be difficult to work around.” Draco looked up to examine Harry’s dark brows, and then returned to his canvas. 

Potter shifted in his seat again, and adjusted his robes. 

Draco met his eyes, paintbrush hovering over the canvas. “You’re moving again.”

Potter’s face flushed. “I really was busy last week.”

Draco sighed, and placed his brush aside. “Would you like to take a break, or have a drink?”

So Draco found himself sitting on a stool he’d transfigured from a small table, sharing a bottle of whiskey with Potter. It was early, but neither of them protested, and Draco found it curious. 

“How is the campaign going?” Draco asked, just to say something because the silence in the study was nearly suffocating. He knew very well how the campaign was going. It was going quite well.

“Well,” Potter affirmed. “It’s going well. I was tasked with something different. That’s why, you know. I couldn’t make it.”

“Something different?” Draco probed. 

Instantly, Potter’s discomfort was visible. Though he quickly tried to neutralize his expression, Draco had been surrounded by Slytherins his entire life and he could sense the signs easily.

“Sometimes the Auror Department recruits me. Think of an occasional part-time job. Really, I do it to help and because I have no other means of practicing defense against the dark arts. That’s what happened last week.” Potter said, and then took another drink.

Draco felt that wasn’t the full story, but he had no intention of probing. After all, this was strictly business and as long as Potter felt satisfied with Draco’s work, then there was no other cause for conversion. 

The whiskey and confession had eased Potter. He sat without movement for the rest of the session. He only moved to ask Draco questions.

He asked about Narcissa. “How is she doing? I heard she’s in France now. You know, she saved my life.”

Draco did not know, and he felt a pang in his chest that distracted him for quite a while. 

Potter asked about his other paintings, and if he intended to have them sold. If not, where did Draco intend in storing them?

Potter never asked about Lucius, nor about his Slytherin friends and their well-being. He was entirely diplomatic and never posed questions as interrogational. His questions were always neutral and non-political. He never spoke of his opponents or other possible Ministers, and never mentioned another word of his partial work with the Aurors. Although something about it left Draco feeling perturbed, he hardly had evidence to know why. 

When Potter sensed Draco was no longer interested in his questions, he would fall quiet for a while. When the silence stretched too long, or when Draco posed his own questions, Potter would begin speaking again. The cycle went on that way for the remainder of the session. 

Draco realized, once Potter left and admired the work on canvas, that Potter perhaps hadn’t changed at all. His character may be exactly the same. Potter had simply learned the art of diplomacy and social attitudes. He was not without opinions or conspiracies, he had simply learned not to make them appear so obvious. 

It was a change, but one that slightly unsettled Draco. He would have much preferred the older version of Potter who was predictable and easy to probe. This man he’d turned into was too guarded for Draco’s liking. Specifically, Draco was now even more intrigued over the situation with the Aurors that Potter had mentioned so briefly. What had gone on really? 

Perhaps Pansy thought nothing sinister of this new business, but Draco was still as suspicious and cynical as always. 

* * *

Later that same evening, Draco found himself two glasses deep into his bottle of whisky while it was pouring rain outside. He adamantly tried to be productive, though his troubling thoughts from the painting session earlier did nothing more than discourage him from any more work. He knew in the back of his mind that if he allowed himself to mope around that it would take an enormous amount of effort to revive him tomorrow, or even the day after that. And how could he do that, when now Pansy and his mother (and perhaps Blaise and the entirety of the Slytherin house) depended on him. 

Of course, why should he be so invested in his work when even Potter didn’t seem to care enough to attend their scheduled meetings? Draco was aware, of course, that Potter was a lot more important than he could ever be, but he could criticize him privately at any moment if he so pleased. 

Draco found himself scouring his bedroom for memorabilia. He found his Hogwarts robes, his old shoes, and one sock. He looked through some cardboard boxes only last seen perhaps 5 or 6 years ago, filled to the brim with moving pictures of his Hogwarts days, several Slytherin handkerchiefs with lipstick stains, flags to cheer on Slytherin during Quidditch games, and other trinkets. 

He arranged some he thought he should keep, and others he thought worthy of a banishing charm. 

Quickly bored and slightly uncomfortable with the sudden influx of childhood memories, he wandered down the stairs again, noting an obvious creak in floorboards and making a mental note of it. He was ready to finally allow himself a slump on the living room sofa, when he spotted something outside the window. 

His owl had arrived from the Owl Emporium. She flew and settled upon the windowsill outside carrying her bronze cage between her talons. She was a Snowy owl, but one that Draco found unique as she possessed a dark spot around her eye. It reminded him of something from a children’s book of stories, and he had to have her the moment he spotted her in the Emporium’s catalogue. 

He spelled the window open for a moment, and she shivered the moment she landed on a nearby table. 

“Apologies for the cold,” he said, reaching for her slowly and gently. She hardly minded his fingers brushing away the rain from her feathers. “Though what a shame no one had thought to charm you with an _Impervius_.”

He detached the cage from her talons, and carried her closer to the fire, admiring her soft feathers and attentive yellow eyes. 

Then he went about expanding the cage and filling it with all sorts of things he’d also ordered from the catalogue. By the time she’d warmed up by the fire, Draco had her cage filled with nesting material and bowls of worms and rat tails.

“There,” he said, and could swear she’d bowed her head in thanks. 

He struggled to find a name for her, and spent the rest of the evening addressing a letter to Pansy which he would send out once the rain abated, and sketching his new owl as closely as he could. 

Before bed his new owl returned with a response. 

_Congratulations on the new bird, Draco. She’s a magnificent beast. As regards to Potter’s suspicious behavior, well I think they are hardly suspicious at all. Perhaps his naturally cynical attitude has rubbed off on you in these few times you’ve come in contact. Though I wouldn’t worry. It is, after all, the nature of his profession to be so skeptical._

_I look forward to hearing more from you tomorrow. Don’t think I’d forgotten our plans to scour the attic. Honestly, I should be compensated for my efforts._


	10. Chapter 9

Pansy deserved compensation for her efforts, and the thought of it never left Draco’s mind once. Particularly when Potter missed another week of their sessions, and Draco and Pansy’s efforts went to naught. 

“No such thing,” Pansy said over the floo when Draco decided to complain to her. “I did it half for Potter’s useless satisfaction, and half for you to live comfortably in your own home, Draco. We are friends after all.” 

Draco thought he hardly deserved her as a friend. He spent the remainder of the week speaking ill of Potter’s manners to anyone who would listen. 

Longbottom stopped by again to make sure the roses were faring well under Draco’s care (they were, to the Gryffindor’s surprise). He seemed uncomfortable with Draco’s complaints of his close friend, and only made subtle remarks and then quickly moved on to speaking of plants and flowers. When Luna arrived to say hello and travel back home with her boyfriend, she only smiled and laughed at Draco’s not so subtle jabs at Potter’s character. 

“Well, of course you would think so. I am so glad he went with you for his portrait. I did speak so highly of you when he asked for my opinion.”

This silenced Draco for a while. _He had asked for Luna’s opinion?_ Draco felt confused and slightly uncomfortable with the idea of the two of them making remarks about him and his painting abilities. He thought only Hermione was involved in the process, but of course a man with so many friends as Potter would ask for everyone’s opinion. Draco wondered what the Weasley clan had to say about him, though he decided he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

Potter continued to postpone their meeting until Draco grew frustrated and confused. Was this not what Potter wanted after all? He did a good job of convincing Draco how desperate he was to have a portrait, and one painted by him. 

Draco grew so restless, that Pansy felt the need to interject. 

“What’s his floo address?” she demanded to know. “Although your schedule isn’t as busy, it is still so rude to keep you off work for so long. You should ask for compensation.”

“He paid upfront,” Draco reminded her. “Although it frustrates me, he has no reason to make things right between us. He owes me nothing, and I owe him only a painting.”

He knew soon enough that the business between them would be over. Sooner rather than later, he realized, when he glanced at the portrait in progress again. Draco worked fast but efficiently, particularly with painting as he spent his time doing nothing else. They only had a few sessions left if things progressed as quickly as they had at that point. 

Election day was a few months ahead, and Draco was confident he would have a finished portrait long before then. 

“Well, if it doesn’t bother you as much then I won’t interfere,” she said, surprising the both of them. “As long as people see the portrait on election day then clients will come storming in and you’ll have gotten what you needed from him.”

Draco was aware of the way businesses worked. He simply had no energy to suggest that perhaps he didn’t want clients to storm in demanding portraits or other paintings. 

He spent the evening on a floo call with his mother. 

“Well,” she said in lieu of a hello. “How is business with Potter?”

Draco debated telling her the truth, and decided against it. “Well, I assume.”

His mother smiled. “I am pleased to hear it. How is he treating you,  _ mon fils _ ?”

“As diplomatic and neutral as I’d ever seen him,” Draco said, allowing himself to speak the truth.

“You are both so grown up now,” she said. “I hardly expected him to act any different. Your aunt Andromeda writes of him nearly constantly. She praises him as though he is her own son.”

“I’m not surprised,” Draco said. “He seems to get along with nearly everyone.”

“I would say he gets along with everybody,” she said. “I have been keeping up with Wizarding politics in Britain, you know. He seems to be doing magnificently well as far as election polls go. Even the pure-bloods who mocked his success seem eager to overlook his bloodline.”

“I wonder what father would say,” Draco said, and instantly regretted it. His mother’s eyes hardly met his, and her skin seemed to pale almost immediately. 

He knew she detested his father’s role in the war. He remembered what Potter had said about Narcissa saving his life, and he wanted to yell at his father again and again for ruining what they could have had as a family. 

“Your father made many mistakes,” his mother said. “One of them was his opinion of Potter.”

They changed the subject quickly, aware that although Potter would take hold of the Ministry soon, constant supervision of previous Death Eaters was unlikely to change. Besides, they had no way of knowing what Lucius would think of Potter, as they had no way of asking. 

“Pansy has been overwhelmingly helpful,” he said. “I think she deserves more than the title of friend. Perhaps I should hire her as an assistant.”

His mother smiled. “You are kind, Draco. Though I think she would be much better suited for you as a wife.”

Draco laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. You come from such similar backgrounds, Draco. Would it be so shocking for me to suggest such an arrangement? Of course, Parkinson’s mother would detest the very thought. She seems to believe her daughters unworthy of the likes of us. As though she hadn’t been on the wrong side of the war herself.” 

“Mother, Pansy is only a friend. I can’t imagine her being anything more,” Draco said, and the thought of even suggesting it to Pansy herself made him ill. 

“I only want to see you happy and accompanied, Draco.” She smiled. “You are my only child, after all. I think of you alone in the Manor and it upsets me beyond words. I simply suggested Pansy because I am aware of your affections towards her.”

“Affections,” he echoed, suddenly confused. “Though none of the romantic sort.”

“I apologize if I upset you, _ mon chou _ . I simply suggest you go out in the world again. When was the last time you left the Manor besides New Year’s? You are never seen in public.”

“For good reason,” he said. “I highly doubt I would want to be seen.”

“Matters have changed,” his mother said. “You seemed to do well in France.”

“France is different,” he said. “I am hardly known there. Don’t dwell on me.”

“Draco, you know that is an impossible task you ask of me,” but she said it with a smile and he was sure no one else in the world could ever love him so unconditionally. 

“Would you rather I moved to France?”

“Who would take care of the Manor?” she asked, slightly appalled. 

“This place is the only thing holding me back,” he confessed. “The moment I find a solution, I will be moving closer to you, Mother.”

* * *

The next morning was cold and gray. 

He woke up too early, and knew instantly something was not right. 

He grabbed his robe from beside his bed, and bounded down the stairs without caring for his hair or brushing his teeth. 

The sound that woke him was that of a Ministry owl by the living room window. Draco opened the windows with some effort, and the cold wind greeted him with a sharp smack. 

The owl dropped a letter into his hands, and flew off. 

He knew from the familiar envelope and seal, that he was in some sort of trouble. His heart began pounding uncontrollably in his chest as he tried to recall his conversation with his mother the previous evening, and found nothing he’d said that could trigger a warning. 

He broke the seal with shaking fingers, and found a letter demanding his presence at the Ministry, concerning a financial matter that he couldn’t decipher. 

“What?” he muttered to himself. There was no further explanation in the letter, and he was left feeling confused and unsettled. 

He wasn’t sure who to reach out to. It was one of the consequences of his recent lack of connections. He wondered if Potter was aware of the letter, and if he had anything to do with it. He felt hot and frustrated that he allowed Potter into his home. Though he knew Potter had nothing to hold against him, as he never left Draco’s line of vision. Draco still thought almost as an instinct that Potter had something to do with it. Rage filled him as he remembered the many times in their youth when Potter had interfered and made his life at Hogwarts a living nightmare. 

Of course, Draco deserved it most of the time, but he was unwilling to admit so at that moment. 

He sent a letter to Potter, demanding an explanation. He sent it to Potter’s office, aware that such actions may not be in his favor, but felt he had no other options. 

Draco paced the ground floor of the Manor with unease. Each passing minute felt like an hour had gone by. He debated letting Pansy know, perhaps warning her in case the Ministry hoped to go after the rest of them. He held off, wanting to make sure of the contents of the letter before contacting anyone else. 

A little over an hour later, his owl returned but without a letter between her talons. Draco grew more frustrated, until the fireplace blazed. 

“Potter,” he said. “What have you done?”

Potter’s initial neutral expression twisted into confusion. “What have _I_ done? Malfoy, let me explain, this has nothing to do with me. It was simply a misunderstanding.”

Draco attempted to control his shaking hands. “A misunderstanding? I haven’t been to the Ministry in years, do you know what this means for me and my mother? If they announce this in all the papers?”

“Will you let me explain?”

“No,” Draco rushed. “I avoided you for this reason in particular. I should have known simply speaking to you would cause me trouble.”

Potter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Draco noticed, suddenly, the dark circles under his eyes and the pale color of his complexion which he hadn’t seen since the war. 

“Will you step through?”

Draco frowned. “If I do I won’t be leaving your office.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Draco sought confirmation. 

“Please, Malfoy.”

Draco considered it. This could be an ambush, or a sort of tactic to have him arrive at the Ministry. “And you can’t step through here yourself?”

“I am working,” Potter said. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

Potter glanced at something outside of Draco’s line of vision. He wondered who else was in the office, listening to and directing Potter’s decisions. 

“All right.”

Draco adjusted his robe tightly, and brushed his fingers through his hair, hoping he wouldn’t look as awful as he thought he might. 

Potter landed nearly perfectly, hardly having to brush the floo powder from his robes. His eyes traveled across the room before settling upon Draco’s frail figure. 

“Well?” Draco crossed his arms around himself tightly. He was aware of the way he looked, just barely risen from bed, hardly put together at all for a visitor. 

Though he found Potter hardly noticed as he took a seat. 

“Please sit down, Malfoy.”

Draco did so, only to avoid another argument.

“As I said, you misunderstood me,” Potter started. “The Ministry goes over your finances periodically. I don’t know how often, since they randomize it so frequently to avoid predictability. That’s besides the point. Apparently someone caught wind of my recent deposit.”

Draco cheeks flushed, and he continued to frown, unable to speak a word.

“Any alarmingly large number such as the one we agreed upon automatically raises the alarms,” Potter explained. “I hardly thought it would matter to inform the Ministry beforehand that we were in business. This is partially my fault for forgetting such strict regulations. I also thought my name on paper would deter them, but they only found it more suspicious. I’ve sent in my personal explanation, and there is a very slim chance you will actually have to show up at the Wizengamot.” 

“You forgot?”

“Yes,” Potter sighed, resting his head in one hand, looking utterly defeated. “I’ve spoken to Hermione to confirm this. We’ll do what we can to make this go away.”

_ Make this go away _ . 

“It would be great if you would make the entire regulation go away,” Draco said, surprising the both of them. “You realize what a privilege it is for you to forget such things are still in place? That none of my friends can find work under the system you and your friends allow to run our government. That my mother can never return to England, and that every time we try to find a way to create some means of living, the regulations you allow to run will deter us both physically and mentally.”

Potter listened carefully, his expression growing more and more frustrated as Draco continued to speak. His eyebrows knitted together, darkening his eyes and souring his expression even further. 

“These regulations were set in place for a valid reason, Malfoy. We are well aware of their hassle, but they are nowhere near the hassles your friends and family caused the rest of the Wizarding World. I would much rather set these regulations in place, than have any of you attempt to bring back Voldemort’s ideas.”

“You prevented Voldemort’s ideas from returning the moment you cast half the pure-bloods into Azkaban, which the rest of us can hardly protest as we agree they deserve to remain there. Yes, including the bastard man I have to call my father.” Draco stood up, unable to be seated so closely to Potter. “But what about the other Slytherins? Some whose families had nothing to do with the war yet continue to be denied deserving positions at work? You realize the war was nearly ten years ago? That the rest of the world has recovered from it? That we’ve atoned for our sins?”

“I doubt that,” Potter said, keeping his voice level, which frustrated Draco further. “Perhaps you have. Perhaps Pansy has. But did you expect us to forgive you? For making my life hell? You realize I’d died, right? That Fred is dead, and so is your very own cousin Nypmphadoria? You don’t know what it was like to let you get off with hardly a slap on the wrist. If it weren’t for Hermione’s insistence, you would not be standing here.”

Draco felt a horrible pang in his chest, ignored half the things Potter had said, unable to keep up. Though he felt an overwhelming sense of grief at the mention of his late cousin. Someone had robbed Teddy his right to having loving parents, and Draco was at least partially responsible. “So why the galleons, Potter? I find it difficult to believe you only want a portrait. Was I simply naive to think you’d moved on?”

“The galleons were a fair price we determined for your services,” Potter said, standing. “Yes, it was difficult to have so much of it transferred to you. Without regulations in place, who knows what you would do with it. Do you understand now? I can never trust you, Malfoy. But unlike your kind, I would never disregard your right to live simply because I detest the idea of you.” 

Draco was quiet, he had nothing else to say. His mind was racing, unable to keep up with Potter’s quick and sharp retorts. He felt dizzy, and inched closer to a chair and grabbed its arm for support. He could hardly believe this was the same man who had smiled at him, spoken to him kindly, asked after his mother in a polite manner. 

Potter’s eyes followed his movements. Draco couldn’t recall a moment during his youth where he felt so shaken by Potter’s words.

“I need to get back to work,” Potter said, more quietly now. “I do apologize on behalf of the Ministry. I will admit they should have contacted me first.”

“Right,” Draco said, his voice audibly strained as he continued to grip the chair. 

“I’ll let you know on Saturday if I can make it on Sunday. I will make this go away, Malfoy. If simply to rid myself of the headache. Though, I think you hardly deserve to get anymore of what you want.”

He left without another word, and Draco allowed himself to slump into a chair as his head spun with echoes of Potter’s sharp words. His chest felt tight, and his mind was filled with self-deprecating thoughts. 

Draco hated himself truly. Not for the first time, he wished he hadn’t been born. He wished, at least, that he could’ve been born to other parents. He hated his father, but knew blaming Lucius would only carry him so far. He was, after all, solely responsible for the mark that still to this day stained the skin of his forearm. 


	11. Chapter 10

Draco was let off with a slap on the wrist, as Potter had worded it. The Ministry sent another owl to retract their previous statement, yet not without a warning that his finances would be under stricter surveillance particularly because of the amount of galleons now available to him. 

The paper ran rumors on Potter’s mysterious painter. Some speculated it was one of his former Hogwarts lovers, or former peers. Potter denied all of them, and requested that no further inquiries were made. One paper came close to revealing Draco’s identity, speculating that perhaps Potter’s secrecy was due to his painter’s controversial role in the war. Several names including Pansy, Blaise, and even Gregory Goyle were dropped in the article, but no further investigation was made as the media’s attention focused on the future events of the election. 

Election day grew nearer, and speculations over other possible Ministers arose. Though none were nearly as successful or widely respected as Potter. Some papers made a special effort to list all of Potter’s achievements, even listing an estimated number of lives he’d saved since the moment he was born. 

Reading the papers grew taxing for Draco. He hardly ever wanted to see the man once a week, let alone see him daily on the front pages of every newspaper. 

When he met with Pansy that week, he recounted his conversation with Potter, but left out the one he had with his mother. 

“And he raised his voice?” Pansy asked, slightly shocked as she rearranged the kitchen furniture for the dozenth time. “I can’t imagine Potter so heated now that he’s grown.”

“He was right of course,” Draco continued. “That I hardly deserved to go by unscathed after the war.”

“You were only a teenager, Draco.” Pansy said, pausing her current state of folding kitchen napkins into perfect triangles. “As we all were.”

“Yet somehow Potter was on the winning side, and so was the majority of the other students at Hogwarts.”

“You continue to seek his approval?” Pansy questioned, a mixture of amusement and judgement lacing her tone. “Draco, he is but another wizard. I thought you left that habit behind in your youth.”

“I do no such thing,” he argued, watching her work but not lending a hand until she agreed with him. “I simply think he’s right. We lost, Pansy.”

“I am well aware,” she said. “As we spoke of this years ago. I hardly think it worth mentioning at this moment.”

Draco massaged his temples. “I didn’t mean to have you argue with me. I was only letting you know of what passed between us.”

“I’m simply glad he had the Ministry revoke their letter to you,” she continued. “There, he did you a favor, no? He doesn’t hate you half as much as you think.”

“I doubt that,” Draco said, and finally stood to aid her. It was his kitchen after all, and Narcissa hadn’t raised an ill-mannered man. 

Keeping his word as always, Potter’s owl delivered a letter on Saturday, informing him that Sunday would not do, but perhaps the following Saturday. 

Draco felt the need to clean the study and entrance again. He took special care in tending the roses, and even began reading books on the various other plants suitable for the front garden. He felt out of his depth, then. He hardly thought himself capable of transforming such a large area. Herbology was not his most difficult subject, yet he hardly thought himself capable. 

Friday evening passed in that manner. Draco carried books from all ends of the Manor, and piled them by the living room window where he could keep an eye out for owls, including his own. He found himself reading until the very late hours of the night, only stopping to feed himself and to pour a glass of whiskey. 

Draco couldn’t remember when he went to bed, only that he did so peacefully despite the thunder of thoughts in his head at the prospect of seeing Potter again. He’d resented the very idea of their next meeting all week, dreading what mood he thought Potter would appear in. 

Come Saturday morning, Draco realized how much of a miscalculation he made in that regard. 

He started his morning with a cup of tea, in a fruitless attempt to quell his nerves. The wind outside was howling, yet it was perhaps the brightest day of that winter. He watched as birds flew outside his windows, chirping, and unfazed by the slight tinge of gray in the sky. 

Potter arrived not early, and not tardy either. He walked through the entrance confidently for a man with so much hatred towards the owner. When he spotted the unfamiliar owl, he took long strides to reach her.

“What’s his name?” Potter asked. 

“Her name,” Draco corrected. “Is yet undetermined.”

Potter didn’t meet his eyes, and simply pet the owl’s feathers and cooed and awed at her until she nuzzled closer to his extended finger. "That's unfortunate." 

When Potter finally glanced at Draco, he did so briefly and without another comment. He waited by the window, as though for a cue. 

Draco held himself from saying a word, only taking in Potter’s tired and gray appearance, before leading the way to the study. 

The sun was not as dim as always, and Draco found the sunlight through the study sufficient enough. 

Potter took his regular seat behind the canvas, and sat with his back rigid, and his expression somber. He was dressed in the same robes as he had at every other session. Though the paleness of his complexion that day rendered his appearance entirely different from the man Draco had previously sketched. 

It only crossed his mind that Potter was in some sort of pain when Draco began mixing his paints, and looked closely at Potter’s skin to determine the accurate shade of vibrant green for his eyes. 

“You’re hurt,” he said, though he quickly felt embarrassed stating something so obvious.

Potter shrugged, and then winced. “It comes with this line of work.”

“The Aurors,” Draco suggested, and continued to mix paint onto his palette. 

Potter simply made a grunt of confirmation. “Stray spell. We lost a few men.”

“To what?” Draco asked, surprised to hear of an event written out of the papers. 

“Drug cartel,” Potter said, nursing his injured arm. “Illegal potions, really, but some Muggle drugs as well. Some enhanced by magic. They were armed of course. We never thought it would get violent there.”

Draco fell quiet, not quite sure of the proper response. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Potter said, voice slightly strained. 

Draco started to paint again, unaware of what else to say to Potter. He hadn’t forgotten the argument they had the last time they met, and surely Potter hadn’t either, though he was acting as though nothing had passed. 

“Thank you,” Draco said, suddenly. He lifted his brush from the canvas, to meet Potter’s curious eyes. “For making it go away.”

“Oh,” Potter said, straightening his posture, but remaining still. He’d become much better at being still. 

“You were right,” Draco found himself saying. He returned his focus back on his painting. “Your opinion of me is well deserved. I am after all my father’s son.”

“Malfoy. If I learned anything from my years at Hogwarts is that we are nothing like our parents. We don’t have to be, if we choose not to be. You are your own person.”

Draco felt himself flush, and continued to avert his eyes. “But you are just as everyone describes your father.”

“They always leave out the bad parts when your parents pass away so soon after your birth. People wish to immortalize their good achievements, in perhaps an effort to reduce your grief.”

Draco was silent for a moment, trying his best to focus on the right shade of Potter’s skin. His all-year round tan was difficult to replicate, but Draco was determined as always. “I hardly believe you could be the son of a father as evil as mine.”

Potter said nothing, and Draco was too terrified of his own words to look up or illicit a reaction, so the conversation ended there. Draco managed to match Potter’s complexion, saving the color in a jar for their next meeting in an attempt to preserve the color in case it ran out. 

He painted silently, only speaking to instruct Potter.

Draco cleaned his fingers from paint periodically, as he had the habit of blending paint with his fingers, and color often remained underneath his nails for days. Paint had somehow gotten onto his crisp white shirt, which he would have found frustrating if not for his discovery of a potion which could rid even the toughest of marks. 

Half an hour later or so, his neck was aching from constantly looking to and from the canvas. He wanted nothing more than an afternoon nap, and perhaps a potent drink. He licked his lips, which were dry and chapped, and suggested a break. 

Draco set his tools aside, ran his fingers through his slightly sweaty hair, and stretched his upper body. 

Looking up, he happened to catch Potter’s eyes, which curiously followed his every move. 

“Would you like to take a look?” Draco found himself inviting criticism. “I’m not quite sure how I feel about your eyes."

Potter obliged, and grimaced as he stood slowly to join Draco's side. He smelled like spices and something perhaps medicinal. His eyes looked intently at the half-finished portrait, and Draco could sense there was a lot on his mind. 

He glanced briefly at Draco’s arm. 

Draco had rolled up his sleeves carefully to avoid staining his shirt, but that left the Mark exposed. It was dark and ugly, a perpetual stain on his forearm. Draco hated it, spent hours scratching it absentmindedly until his pale skin turned red. 

Regardless of Potter’s opinion and Draco’s spineless nature, he refused to hide the Mark. Definitely not in his own home.

“Is that really how you see me?” Potter finally asked when his attention returned to the portrait.

Perplexed, Draco looked at the canvas again. “What do you mean?”

“My brows here,” Potter’s fingers hovered slightly over the canvas. “I look upset, or maybe angry? It’s dark. Is that what I look like?”

Draco licked his lips again, his throat tight and dry. “I could change it.”

“I never said anything about changing it,” and now Potter turned to look at him intently, searching for an answer. 

Uncharacteristically bold, Draco reached for the area in question. Potter’s skin and eyebrows were soft underneath his touch. When Draco touched between Potter’s brows with the tips of his fingers, the knot eased, and Potter relaxed. 

“You frown,” Draco stated. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, but he continued to run his fingers over Potter’s skin. From between his brows, to the premature lines that crossed his forehead, and then finally withdrew his hand. “Quite a lot, actually.”

Potter avoided his gaze and took a step back, looking towards the canvas again. “I’m more surprised you noticed, I guess.”

“My job is to notice,” Draco reminded him, cleaning his brushes before paint could dry and destroy their fine hairs. “Though I’m surprised no one has told you before.”

“Who would?” Potter asked, though mostly to himself, and turned towards the rest of the study before Draco could think of a response. 

Draco continued to clean his brushes, but watched as Potter examined the other paintings in the room. They sat collecting dust in the corner, but Potter was careful, and looked through each individual canvas as though they would self-destruct upon someone’s touch. 

“They look even better in person,” he said. “This one in particular.”

It was a painting Draco had painted long ago, but one he didn’t have the heart to hide away in the attic. 

“Where is this?” Potter asked, before Draco could say a word. 

“Here,” Draco said, and Potter turned to him with surprise. “But ages ago. My parents loved to throw all kinds of functions, as was tradition back in the day. That is the ball room, which Mother would transform. The glass of the room was perfect for expanding, and she would spend hours charming the windows to look seamless, and the sky to be full of stars and constellations regardless of time or season.” 

“I could have sworn it was someplace else, or a figment of your imagination.”

Draco drew closer to him, and pointed at two misshapen figures in the middle of the transformed ballroom. “That’s me and Mother. Though it was frowned upon to have children attend such balls so late at night, Mother always made an exception for me.”

Potter stared at the painting for a long time. Occasionally, he named constellations he was familiar with, and Draco filled in where Potter faltered. 

“You’re talented,” Potter said at the end of the session. He wrapped a plush, home-made looking scarf around his neck one-handedly as he readied himself to leave at the entrance of the Manor. It was bright orange, and failed to match the rest of his attire, yet it hardly looked odd on Potter. “I think your list of clients will grow exponentially soon.” 

“Is that a compliment, Potter?”

Potter’s lips twitched, in a brief attempt to suppress what Draco would have liked to believe was a smile. Draco caught the switch of emotions, and felt a terrible sense of guilt and hatred towards himself. 

“Take it or leave it, Malfoy.” 


	12. Chapter 11

A letter arrived for Draco on a random night of the week. He was careful to break the seal on its envelope before reading its content. 

_ “You are hereby invited to celebrate the engagement of Pansy Parkinson to William Rosier …”  _

Draco skimmed the rest of the invitation, and set it aside. He felt overwhelmed and largely unprepared for its content. Of course, he knew such a letter would arrive for him soon. After all, at their age, marriage was expected and encouraged by all families within the Wizarding World regardless of social status. He was simply surprised that Pansy hadn’t attempted to warn him, or even mention a man by the name of William. 

Their friendship was cherished and close, but they hardly ever spoke of their dating life. Pansy mentioned several times her disdain for arranged marriages or the dating lifestyle common amongst wizards and witches these days. She often said it was nothing as she imagined it to be when she was younger. 

She never mentioned her need for marriage, always passing it off as something encouraged by her mother, and not something she invited or looked forward to. In fact, there was not a bone of maternal instinct in her body, and Draco knew it would be difficult to arrange a marriage without having children as a given expectation, particularly as he was familiar with the Rosier way of life. 

He knew of one man who shared the same last name. He’d met him not soon after the war, in a pub somewhere. They spoke of the pure-blood way of life, though only in code words. Draco followed him to his apartment, where he stayed the night. They’d lost contact once restrictions imposed upon Slytherin grew stricter, and hardly any involved in the war wished to be seen in public. 

But Draco knew from the few conversations they had back then, that marriage was an imminent thought on the man’s mind. His family was pressing him to marry a wealthy girl, primarily to heal their reputation but also to ensure an heir. The man was simply stalling, clearly not favorable towards the fairer sex. 

Pansy sent him a letter not soon after the arrival of the invitation. 

_ Dear Draco _ , she’d written. 

_ Though I know I should have mentioned my engagement the last time we spoke, I am embarrassed to say I was foolish enough to fear your reaction. I know our friendship is simply a platonic relationship, I feared you would think my marriage would separate us. I also feared your disappointment. William is a great man whom I admire and care for greatly. Although you are aware of mother’s persistence, and I won’t lie and say it didn't play a role, I also wish for you to know that this marriage was entirely my choice. You know, Draco, that I would never marry a man I wasn’t satisfied with. His connections would afford my family a great deal of comfort, and his manners and behaviors are well-known to be favorable. He treats me kindly and with care, as a true gentleman rarely found these days. _

_ I hope regardless of my childish behavior that you will still attend the party in our honor. It will be a small gathering for its kind. I also wish that you will grow to accept my decision, and support it.  _

_ Yours lovingly,  _

_ Pans _

Draco set the two letters to the side, and poured himself a drink. 

He no longer felt betrayed, only lost and numb. What part of his behaviors had encouraged Pansy to fear his reaction so violently, he wondered. 

Curiously, he wondered if he’d ever met William Rosier. The name wasn’t familiar, but perhaps his appearance would ring a bell. 

Of course, Draco detested the idea of attending the gathering regardless of its size. Who would Pansy invite? He would make sure to ask her in his reply to her letter. He was, however, inclined to accept the invitation because it was Pansy after all. He owed her a million dances, and he would support her decisions regardless of their nature. Their bond had strengthened recently, although clearly not as much as he’d thought. 

After sending his reply, he wrote one addressed to his mother, sharing the news. He knew his mother would greet the letter with disappointment and perhaps sadness on Draco’s behalf. He was unaware of how to tell her that he could never be interested in Pansy, and he is slightly grateful for her engagement as a way to never have to tell her or formulate excuses to avoid seeing her romantically. 

He had a calm sleep that night, undisturbed by the news he’d received. The following morning, he scoured through several catalogues to find a gift for Pansy, and for two new sets of robes. 

Slowly, but surely, he was integrating back into society whether he liked it or not. He was grateful for the galleons in his vault to ensure him a seamless transition. 

* * *

The gathering was held a week after the invitation was sent, and Draco spent that week preparing himself mentally and physically. He trimmed his hair with a spell he’d learned during his youth at Hogwarts, and shaved what little hair grew on his chin and jaw. He saw that his robes were tailored, and that his gift was wrapped and presentable before the gathering. 

Draco gave the Manor one last glance, recalling that perhaps the last time he ventured out properly was for Aunt Andromeda’s New Year's gathering, which felt then like a lifetime ago. 

He wondered for the millionth time who Pansy would have managed to invite. Although Draco's social life was as dead as Voldemort’s corpse, he was well aware that Pansy had managed to maintain several friendships over the years, as she was inherently more charming and appealing to others than he was. 

Draco stepped through the floo, not panicked but not calm either. He had no expectations, only a sense of regret and dread. 

He was one of the first to arrive, a feeling of deep anxiety filled his gut, and he began to sweat as his eyes roamed over the few other guesses present. He could only replay Potter’s cruel though truthful words of his past. He was suddenly very aware of his family’s public disgrace. 

Quickly, he spotted Pansy and embraced her in a quick congratulations, before shoving the gift into her hands. 

She looked absolutely gorgeous, he thought, and said so out loud. Her neatly chopped hair was smooth, decorated with several transparent jewels so that her hair resembled a night sky full of glittering stars. Her dress hugged her figure, a low neckline which begged for attention, and a silky smooth material that shined whenever she moved. Her long legs were revealed only through the slit of her dark dress, and the contrast of her pale skin and the dark dress was alluring. 

William Rosier was a respectable, and fine young man. He was what Draco expected; tall, handsome in a mysterious way, and well-mannered. Draco’s mother, upon learning of his name, wrote extensively of his achievements and reputation. Though Pansy never sought his direct approval, Draco made sure to command her on her choice in their next meeting alone.

Rosier’s back was stiff as he stood nearly shadowing Pansy, eyes curiously following her conversation with Draco. His dark hair was slicked back with gel, and his thick brows framed his dark eyes wonderfully. His personality though withdrawn, complimented his appearance. He wasn't dull per se, only that he spoke when directly addressed, and always with a gentle voice and enunciated words. 

He was older than the both of them, but not so much that signs of aging appeared visibly, and as Draco liked to think, the war had aged everyone significantly. 

Pansy took her fiancé’s arm, and moved away from Draco almost regretfully as more guests arrived. 

Draco didn’t mind, though he was curious enough to watch them subtly as he found his way towards a table of drinks. 

The gathering was held at William’s house. It was large, situated by the country, and well furnished and renovated compared to Draco’s own Manor. Draco made sure to learn later how his fortune hadn’t been lost after the war. He knew the Rosiers were also caught on the wrong side, though perhaps their luck matched that of the Parkinson’s. 

The pair were suited for one another, Draco concluded. An attendant poured him a flute of sparkling champagne, and Draco nursed the drink as he scanned the rest of the room. 

He recognized several other Slytherins from Hogwarts, some long graduated before the war, others much younger and from the same year as Draco and Pansy. He figured the unfamiliar faces were there for William, while the more familiar may be friends of Pansy. 

He attracted several long stares, making him feel uncomfortable and rendering him unable to maintain eye contact. 

“Why, I knew I would find you here,” he heard a gentle voice say, and he turned to see Daphne Greengrass, nearly unrecognizable now as she was much older and much taller. “Draco Malfoy, it is lovely to see you.”

“Daphne,” he said, not sure what to say. “The pleasure is mine.”

She laughed, a light and joyous sound that always had heads turning. Draco smiled involuntarily, remembering her smiles were always this contagious. 

“Where have you been?” she asked, as she was handed a glass of whisky. “I asked Pansy about you several times, and she always said you were busy. I couldn’t believe you would be so busy as to miss every occasion.”

Draco felt an even stronger affection towards Pansy. She was the most loyal friend he knew. “Pansy never lies. I have been quite busy with work.”

Daphne smiled. “Well then you must tell me what you do.”

“I paint,” Draco said, not sure how this would be accepted. 

“You paint?” Daphne’s eyes twinkled, and they moved away from the growing crowd by the drinks to somewhere they could converse more comfortably. “I’m intrigued now. What do you paint?”

“All sorts of things,” he said, waving his free hand in the air. He was afraid to go into much detail, aware that perhaps it was not a good idea to disclose  _ whom _ he was painting at the moment. 

“Well then you must have heard about the whole Potter ordeal in the papers,” she said, and he was glad he hadn’t said much else. “Do you know who his painter is? I find the whole secrecy aspect ridiculous, to be frank.”

“I agree,” he said, though he didn’t. “Potter always manages to find himself on the front page of every paper. The man is insufferable.”

Daphne laughed, and they were joined by Blaise Zabini. 

He’d grown beautifully, Draco thought instantly at his arrival. His dark skin was glowing underneath the room’s lighting, his hair was cropped short, and his jaw was sharp and defined. Beneath his tailored robes, Draco could see that he’d grown muscles, and he was so tall now that even Draco found the need to tilt his chin to meet his eyes more comfortably. 

He gave Draco a knowing smile. “Still obsessed over Potter, Draco? I thought you would eventually grow out of your phase.”

Daphne looked between them curiously. “What phase?”

"He’s teasing,” Draco said.

“Oh, do tell,” Daphne said, ignoring Draco’s remark and gazing prettily at Blaise. 

The latter could never turn down the attention. “Malfoy spent half his time at Hogwarts pining. Remember the badges? Those were his doing. Who do you think made Potter such a miserable grouch?”

“I wasn’t  _ pining _ ,” Draco said, slightly annoyed at Blaise’s laid back confidence. “Though I will admit I did make him miserable.”

Daphne laughed again, and Draco noticed more clearly now how people turned to look at her still. Things hadn’t changed a bit, he thought.

“Oh, Draco,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “I’m afraid I never noticed, and I regret it now.”

“Don’t,” Blaise said, eyeing Draco up and down. “He’s clearly come a long way now. I do think his pining days are over, and he may be more susceptible to criticism.”

“How would you know?” Draco asked. “What have you been up to, Zabini?”

Zabini’s eyes met him calmly. “I’m surprised Pansy hadn’t mentioned my downfall.”

“Why would she?” Draco countered, and felt Daphne’s hand slip from his arm as she tensed beside them. “You think so ill of her?”

“No, I think she’s honest and loyal.” Blaise said, and his eyes shifted to the couple at the other end of the room. “I would have married her myself if I was rich and as loyal as she is.”

“And if you found her any bit attractive,” said Daphne, quickly and slightly under her breath that if Draco had been otherwise occupied, he wouldn’t have registered her words. 

Draco’s eyes shot to Blaise, but his only reaction was to smile wickedly. 

“Daphne, are you jealous? You know I have no preferences.”

“But you prefer some over others,” she said slyly with a smile. She left the two of them when she spotted an old friend, and Draco stood quietly, not sure what to say to Blaise.

“We shared the dormitory,” Blaise said, and Draco looked at him again. “My preferences were not unheard of.”

“They come as a surprise to me,” Draco said, after carefully considering how he should reply. 

“I’m shocked,” Blaise said, bringing his drink to his lips. “I thought I made my intentions clear and you only dismissed me out of disinterest.”

“Your intentions?” Draco echoed, surprised. 

Blaise chuckled, his voice low and his laugh deep from his chest. “Though I suppose it doesn’t matter. You sought after your father’s approval too diligently to act upon your feelings, even if you had them.”

“I was unaware,” Draco said, dismissing the comment about Lucius. “That you had intentions towards me at all.”

“I expected you to marry Pansy, even before the war. I grew tired of pursuing you, as you were also constantly surrounded by your lackies. I only later found out about your mark.”

At the mention of the Dark Mark, Draco’s hand clasped his forearm tightly, and he felt nauseous and dizzy all at once. He finished his champagne, and set the glass aside without looking. 

“That was eons ago, it feels like.” Draco said under his breath. “I apologize.”

Blaise looked at him curiously, and set his drink aside as well. “For what?”

“Being unaware,” Draco said. “But for a million other things as well.”

Blaise understood his meaning, and he only bowed his head as indication of his understanding. 

Pansy and William made a slow but effective circuit around the room. They spoke briefly to Blaise and Draco, Pansy looking between her two friends with the intention of questioning them later, he knew from the glint in her eyes and the way she quickly moved on to the rest of the guests. 

She watched as well, as Blaise and Draco moved to the hallway, seeking a more private room for conversing. 

“So, you pined over me?” Draco said, as they approached the nearby library. 

The room was filled to the brim with all sorts of books, papers, and paintings. There was a pleasant scent to the room, one which reminded Draco of his own father’s study, before he’d changed the scent of the room forever with the strong fumes of his paints and oils. 

Blaise cornered him against the door, pushing it shut, and peering down at Draco as though he was a vulture and Draco were his prey. 

“I found you endearing,” Blaise said, as his fingers sought out the buttons on Draco’s crisp shirt. “You were at the forefront of my thoughts for nearly a decade.”

Blaise’s thick fingers ran over Draco’s bare chest, brushing gently over his scars, skimming over his pink nipples. 

“I hadn’t noticed,” Draco said, but his eyes were drawn to the other man’s full lips. He was hungry for their touch, the feeling familiar but old. His skin tingled, and he licked his lips in anticipation. 

“You never noticed a thing,” Blaise said, his lips now brushing the length of Draco’s neck, while his knee wedged itself between Draco thighs.

Draco held his breath, heart thudding in his chest as Blaise’s warm breath pressed against his skin and sent shivers down his spine, while also increasing the heat between his legs. 

“I was busy,” Draco said, his eyes fluttering as Blaise’s wet tongue slid out of his plush lips, and pressed against his skin with determination. “Though I regret my behavior now.”

They kissed, and their kiss was hot and hungry. Blaise easily pried Draco’s lips open, pushing his tongue inside Draco’s mouth, and exploring the silkiness of his hot mouth with long strokes of his tongue. 

Draco could hardly catch up, though Blaise didn’t seem to mind. Draco missed the feeling of someone so close to him, heat traveling over his body. He was aware of the door pressed painfully to his back, and the way Blaise's hands ran over his hair, and landed on Draco’s narrow waist as he kissed him with deep interest. 

When they withdrew, Draco panting and skin flushed, Blaise buttoned his shirt and took a step back. 

“There,” he said, his dark eyes flashing over the way he’d debauched Draco. 

He’d done what he’d wanted to do to him all those years ago. 

Draco, amazed but confused over Blaise’s restraint, wiped his hand over his mouth. “Is that all you wanted?”

“I want more,” Blaise admitted. “But I haven’t seen you since we were children, Draco.”

He said his name with a hush, as though it were sacred and rare.

“Have at it,” Draco found himself saying. 

Blaise watched him, chest slightly heaving, and the arms underneath his robes straining. “You are as unavailable as you were then.”

“I assure you I have nothing better to do.”

“Perhaps,” Blaise said, straightening his robes. “But your mind is so clearly elsewhere.”

Draco felt offended, though he knew what Blaise meant by his words. Still, the hunger in his chest and the heat between his legs dominated his thoughts. 

“You’re in love with him,” Blaise said.

“What?”

“With Potter,” Blaise reached over, and fixed the a disarrayed stand of hair on Draco’s head. His touch was near electrifying, and Draco was amazed at how touch deprived he’d been. He’d been craving a kiss so badly, he could hardly register the meaning behind Blaise’s words.

“Potter,” Draco scoffed, and ran his own fingers through his hair. “I haven’t seen him in ages.”

“Are you sure?” Blaise asked, and lifted Draco's hand between them. “There’s paint underneath your nails, and I can recognize the signs of your pining as I’d been studying them for years.”

“You can’t tell,” Draco blurted, without thinking. 

Blaise dropped his hand. “Who would believe me?”

Draco was silent. His mind was racing with a number of thoughts. He couldn’t believe that only a moment ago he was being kissed with want, an experience he craved for years. Now, he felt as though he was being reprimanded. 

“And I don’t love him,” Draco said, with a snarl that he couldn’t quite control. “Potter and I are entirely different. He abhors me."

“He may dislike you,” Blaise said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to share the same feelings towards him.”

Frustrated, Draco moved away from Blaise. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Blaise shrugged, and Draco remembered how much he used to envy his composure. “Perhaps not. You can call it intuition, but I can tell from just kissing you that you wished to be kissed by someone else. I knew it was Potter after overhearing your conversation with Daphne. When you speak of him, your body hums.”

“ _ Hums _ ?” Draco laughed. “You’re out of your mind.”

“You’re out of yours as well. We’re not different.”

They were actually quite similar. 

“It was without a doubt a pleasure seeing you again, regardless.” Blaise left the room briskly, as though he’d never been there in the first place. 

Alone, Draco leaned against the wall and attempted to compose himself before seeking out Daphne. He avoided Blaise as best as he could, though Blaise acted as though nothing had passed between them.

Pansy eyed him curiously when he said goodbye at the end of the evening. 

She kissed his cheek and held him tightly to her chest. “Thank you for coming.”


	13. Chapter 12

Draco was surprised to wake up without the dull ache of a headache. He hadn’t drank nearly as much as he’d wished earlier in the night. 

The Manor was quiet. The early signs of spring were present on the other side of his windows. He spent the early morning reading books on gardening, and when the morning rain cleared, he properly ventured outside into the garden for the first time in years. 

Weed and overgrown grass were in the way of his feet. The soil was dry from years of neglect despite the rain, and brown leaves crunched beneath his bare feet. 

He soon regretted his lack of proper footwear, and  _ Accioed _ the nearest boots from the entrance of the Manor. He strained to concentrate on his magic, the fog of his mind in the early morning still present despite his large cup of tea over breakfast. 

Finally comfortable in his feet, Draco surveyed the rest of the Manor’s exterior. The grass on the hills leading up to the Manor was kept only as a favor from nature, though it could do with a general trimming spell he found in one of Narcissa’s gardening books. 

The main garden, which sat at the front of the Manor, remained his priority. He sat on a conjured garden chair, and flipped through several pages he’d bookmarked from his book. Slowly, he lifted his wand and began to cast. In the pocket of his robes, he pulled out the necessary potions recommended to him by Longbottom. 

There, he began the long process of restoring his mother’s prized garden. 

The grass, weed, and entangled vines were all cleared away with a quick spell. The soil was replenished, and the roots of many dead plants were pulled and discarded. With the seeds of the recommended plants, he began to grow bushes along the sides of his garden. In the summer, they would bloom with purple hydrangeas. With the broken bits of a wooden garden table, he transfigured a wooden path that he set at the center of the garden, leading up to a giant oak tree that had grown remarkably well without Draco’s interference. 

Draco planted the rest of the garden with the seeds of several other flowers, and with some plants he thought would be helpful in case he needed them for potions. 

Satisfied for the day, he brushed away the soil from his hands and robes, and turned to walk up the path towards the Manor. 

The moment he turned, he noticed a figure by his door. For a moment, his heart constricted in his chest, and he gripped his wand tightly. 

“Malfoy,” the man called. 

He walked closer towards the garden, and Draco quickly lowered his wand. 

“Potter,” he said, heartbeat still unsteady. “I was unaware that you would be stopping by this morning.”

“It’s two in the afternoon,” Potter said. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, I must have been so distracted I hardly noticed the time. Did we schedule a session for today?” Draco felt the skin on his cheeks flush, his heart stuck in his throat.

“I sent you a letter,” Potter stated. “This explains your confusion. Is this a bad time? I could come back tomorrow or on Sunday like usual.”

“No,” Draco said. “I’m done here.”

Potter’s eyes then found the subject of Draco’s distraction. “Oh, this looks different.”

“Well, I tried.”

“No, I didn’t mean it that way.” Potter took a step closer to the garden. “I know a few spells that could quicken the process of their growth, if you’d like to see.”

“By all means,” Draco said. “Though the hydrangeas may be of trouble.”

Potter only raised one arm, and Draco’s seeds began to grow before their eyes. Flowers bloomed, and the hydrangea bushes popped out of the ground nearly comically. The growth of the various plants and flowers, along with the border created by the bushes stood out beautifully around the wooden path. 

“It’s wonderful,” Potter said, lowering his arm. “You did a good job of planting the seeds so far apart.” 

“I had the help of Longbottom,” Draco said, lifting his book. “And this old tome.”

Potter eyed him curiously. “I never knew you had any interest in gardening.”

“I don’t,” Draco said quickly. “Only the mess of it distracted me. And Pansy.”

“I hardly noticed there was a mess.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

Potter seemed stuck between protesting and agreeing. “Will you lead the way?”

Draco led them to the Manor’s entrance, its warm interior greeted them pleasantly.

“Are you hungry?” Potter asked, finally twisting his scarf from his neck and kicking his boots off. “I don’t mind if you’d like to have your lunch. I should be free the rest of the afternoon, which is rare. It’s why I showed up now. I was afraid I wouldn’t have the chance this weekend and the election is approaching so quickly.”

“Lunch would help me work more efficiently,” Draco answered truthfully. “Though I’m afraid the kitchen is still in need of some cleaning.”

Draco had finally replaced the cracked tiles, and installed a new set of kitchenware. However, there was a growing pile of dishes in the sink, and he felt suddenly aware of the room’s flaws.

“It’s hardly dirty,” Potter said upon entering the kitchen. “I think the windows are beautiful.”

Draco had spelled the windows to take up most of the space on the empty walls of the kitchen. They looked out onto the hill and trees beneath the Manor grounds. 

“Thank you,” Draco said, and found some soup in the fridge that he could quickly heat up with a heating spell. 

They sat quietly at the kitchen table. Draco was aware again of the old chairs and how they groaned. 

Potter hardly seemed to mind. His eyes traced every inch of the kitchen, taking in the red bricks on the walls, and the white tiles of the floor. He ignored the seat facing Draco, and stood by the sink as he cast some cleaning spells at the dishes. 

“Potter, stop,” Draco said, embarrassed. 

Potter taught him the necessary spells. “I shouldn’t be surprised you’re not aware of the spells. They’re specific for dishes. Molly taught them to me when we left Hogwarts.”

Draco, abashed and displeased with himself, was quick to consume his lunch, and he ushered Potter into the study before he had any ideas of exploring more of the Manor. 

Potter sat at his designated spot, back rigid, and eyes not quite focused on anything in particular. 

Draco suddenly remembered the mention of Potter at last night’s gathering. From Daphne’s surprised remarks, to Blaise’s bold confrontation. 

“I’m afraid there’s something you need to know,” Draco said, as he mixed his paints and prepared the colors he would need. 

Potter met his eyes, slightly alarmed. His hair again was a mess of curls. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes that were not uncommon, but rarely spotted. His robes were tailored well, yet some parts were wrinkled and unkept. “What is it?”

“Blaise Zabini knows.”

“Knows?”

“That I’m painting you,” Draco said, calmly, but in his mind he was not sure what to expect, and fear gripped his gut.

“Zabini?” Potter frowned. “Why, did Pansy tell him?”

“No,” Draco said. “I saw him yesterday. He guessed.”

“ _ Guessed _ ?” Potter asked, perplexed. “What did he have as proof?”

Draco held out his hands. “I’m afraid my lack of hygienic practices gave me away.”

Potter snorted. “ _ You  _ lack  _ what _ ? No, seriously.”

“He overheard my conversation with Daphne Greengrass about my current occupation. I never mentioned I was painting you. Only that you were all over the papers and she was confused over why you were keeping me a secret.”

“Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini in one gathering. What, did the lot of you have a Slytherin reunion?”

“Hilarious,” Draco said, and nearly rolled his eyes. “Pansy got engaged.”

“To someone other than you?” Potter asked, genuinely surprised. 

“Pansy and I are just friends,” he reiterated for what felt like the millionth time. “She’s going to marry William Rosier. He’s not bad actually.”

“I always thought,” Potter’s voice trailed off, and he examined Draco more carefully now. “Well, you know, she submitted your application for you.”

“I guess you can say we’re close, but never in that way.”

“So, Blaise Zabini knows. All right, I guess.”

Draco paused. “You’re not angry?”

“No,” Potter frowned. “Should I be?”

“No,” Draco said. “I don’t know. You’re always getting heated over something or other.”

“You realize I keep your identity secret for your sake,” Potter stated, as though Draco was suddenly a child to be spoken down to.

“You can’t deny people finding out it is me would taint your campaign," Draco retaliated. 

Potter was silent then, unable to respond. “There’s that, too.”

A silence fell upon the room. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t pleasant either. Draco was aware of Potter’s eyes on him as he painted, curious and questioning. He knew the Gryffindor had many questions he was dying to ask, but perhaps none so desperately as he never posed a single one. 

Draco pushed these thoughts out of his mind, and readjusted the hold on his brush. Without meaning to, he began to recall last night’s events. Particularly, the events that took place between him and Blaise inside Rosier’s library room. Flushing slightly, he could still remember the feeling of Blaise’s hot tongue against his neck. He cleared his mind quickly, remembering that he couldn’t afford to lose concentration now he was so close to completing Potter’s portrait.

So instead, he started painting Potter’s unruly curls, accenting them with lighter streaks of brown which were difficult to notice at first but grew more prominent in the summer. It was easy to distract himself with Harry as his subject, his skin was warm and smooth, his eyes sharp with the hint of subtle intelligence. Draco knew, suddenly, why Blaise or anyone would assume he was in love with Potter. Not because he was, but because it would be easy for anyone to fall in love with soft skin like that, thick hair like that, a confident posture just like that, quick and smart retorts like that. 

Draco was lost in thought, hands only moving out of hours and days of practice. 

Without warning, a patronus in the shape of a dog appeared in the corner of his vision. Draco paused, and Potter rushed to his feet as the patronus began to demand his appearance. 

Potter glanced at Draco, torn and confused. 

“Go,” Draco said, already setting aside his brush. “We’ll figure this out later.”

“Thank you,” Potter said. “It’s Ron. It might be important.”

“Of course. I understand.”

Potter Disapparated from where he stood in the study, his brows creased with worry lines that even Draco felt a sense of fear and dread creep over his skin. 

Draco cleaned his brushes, finding that painting color from memory was the last thing he desired to do. He then wandered into the living room, where he found the wireless he hardly ever used, and connected it to the nearest wizarding station. 

Draco spent the rest of the afternoon sketching what he could from the living room in an attempt to distract himself as he waited for news. However, he found there was nothing of interest in the living room. His fingers smelled like paint, but he gnawed on his nails in between sketches regardless. 

Nothing appeared on the news which could have been related to Potter or his friends. Draco was beginning to think his worries were naught. He questioned himself, and why he’d reacted so violently to the worry which was displayed on Potter’s demeanor. He couldn’t possibly be so empathetic as to reflect even Potter’s own emotions. 

After dinner, Pansy arrived via floo to discuss her engagement more thoroughly, and while Draco was pleased to hear more about William Rosier, his thoughts continued to draw back to Potter’s obvious distress and the worrying tone in which Ron demanded his presence. He pushed thoughts of Potter aside, as Pansy described William’s upbringing and familial ties. 

“The Rosiers have a summer home in France,” Pansy was saying. “It has been in their possession for so long, and we were thinking of holding the wedding there. I think it would be best, all things considered. Perhaps Narcissa could join us.”

“Oh, Pans,” Draco forgot all worry for Potter. “You don’t have to do all that for Mother, she’ll be fine.”

Pansy smiled, clasping his hands as they sat on the living room sofa. “You know how much you two mean to me, Draco. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, from Will's description of the gardens it would look beautiful. We wouldn't be the first to hold our wedding there. Mother would find it more comfortable as well.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Draco said. “Speaking of, he seems like quite the gentleman. You two look good together.”

“We do, don't we,” Pansy laughed. “I was shocked he would consider marrying me. His family is so respectable. Of course, we were both caught on the wrong side of the war, and his views are so unlike that of other pure-bloods. Even though he was raised with similar traditions, he says his mother always cared to ensure he respected Muggles and their traditions. He knows so much about their way of life.”

Surprised, Draco made an approving sound. “And do you get along well with his mother?”

“Of course,” Pansy smiled a sly smile. “I am aware their relationship is cherished. I had to make sure I could get along with her. She’s a sweet woman, although old and not quite as healthy now. Perhaps Narcissa knows her from Hogwarts. Mother says her name isn’t familiar, but Mother is  _ so _ bad with names.” 

At the mention of Muggles and pure-bloods, Draco remembered the argument he’d had with Potter recently. And then he remembered the manner in which he rushed away that evening. He was no longer as worried as he was then, but his mind was occupied with thoughts of his unruly hair and the glow of his green eyes for the remainder of the night. 


	14. Chapter 13

The next time they met, Potter was silent and withdrawn. It was late in the afternoon, on a random day of the week, perhaps a Tuesday or Wednesday. 

The sun had begun her descent, but the sky was already dark from the gloom of the day. Potter sat stiff-backed now, hardly moving, forming into the most ideal subject for live painting. Draco spelled the lights in the room a little brighter that day, hoping to create a more calming environment. 

“Is everything all right?” he asked, after holding back for perhaps half an hour since his subject’s arrival. He attempted to convince himself that he hardly cared about Potter’s well-being. He was simply asking to be cordial. 

“Not exactly,” and there was a surprised air between them when Potter responded. His honesty alarmed Draco. 

He never thought of Potter as being so open to expressing his feelings. Draco always thought of Potter as the brave Gryffindor who saved their lives, and not a wizard with many problems since the war.

“It’s nothing,” Potter added. “Hermione and Ron had a scare. With the baby.”

“They’re expecting?” Draco asked, not recalling a visible bump on Hermione the last time he saw her.

“A girl,” Potter said. “Supposedly. The healers thought there was something wrong with her heartbeat. She may be born with what they called a defect.”

“I can’t imagine what Granger is going through,” Draco said, without thinking. He set his brush aside, tired of attempting to perfect Potter’s jaw and the shadows that defined his sharp cheeks.

“I was with them all week,” Potter said. He released a pathetic laugh. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this of all people. Sometimes I think I could hardly make it as Minister. I would much rather be with Hermione and Ron than take care of everybody else. It’s selfish, but the idea of it is exhausting.”

Draco hesitated. “May I be honest?”

“Go ahead,” Potter said, sounding awfully defeated. 

“When you said you were running for Minister, I was surprised,” Draco said. “You’ve done so much already. They’re exhausting you thin, Potter. I know it’s important work but I always pictured you on your feet all the time, running around taking care of the world and then settling down with the fortunes you’ve accumulated. Or perhaps you’d become a Quidditch coach. I never thought you the type to sit still on that stool, let alone spend all your time behind a desk.”

“I wouldn’t be behind my desk at all times, though I understand your concern. Hermione tried to explain it to me, but I couldn’t grasp it until now.”

There was a brief pause before Potter said, “Thank you. For your honesty. May I be honest in return?”

“Yes,” Draco said, and he braced himself, “of course.”

“You are not what I expected, Malfoy. I expected an arrogant man with hatred and cruelty towards everyone but his friends and family. Yet you’ve been awfully empathetic and understanding. It’s confusing and alarming.” Potter met his eyes, though he seemed uncomfortable after what he said.

“Alarming?” Draco inquired. 

“I always thought I understood people. You were a Death Eater, and the son of a Death Eater. You come from a family of them, and you regarded Voldemort with no criticism,” Potter explained, “now I see things differently. It sounds strange to say but I realize you now that you do care.”

“I always have,” Draco said, looking away towards the portrait. “It’s a shame you never noticed.”

“Yes, it is. Tell me about Narcissa. How is she doing in France?”

Draco took a moment to consider Potter’s sudden change of subject and interest in his mother’s condition. “She’s all right, I suppose. Pansy’s wedding will be held near her. I think she’s looking forward to it. They treat her well there. Of course, restrictions still apply but her life is much more comfortable there.”

“I’m glad,” and Potter sounded genuine. “And Lucius?”

“You would know better than I,” was Draco’s short response. 

Potter regarded him curiously. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“The trials,” Draco said. “Though he sent me letters for a while after.”

“You never considered visiting?” Potter asked, eliciting a frown from Draco. 

“I never thought I would be allowed to,” Draco said. “I automatically assumed my request would be denied.”

Potter frowned, and he seemed deep in his thoughts for a long time. “I never heard of such restrictions, though your case may be different. I could talk to ‘Mione about it if you’d like.”

Draco’s heart clenched in his chest, and he couldn’t meet Potter’s eyes so easily. “I’m not sure I can ever see that man again. I’m surprised you would want me to.”

“Not want,” Potter said. “Perhaps I owe it to you.”

“In return for what?” Draco questioned. "You owe me nothing." 

“This,” Potter gestured between them, “the money is a duty that I had to pay but this would be for your time and kindness towards me, which were optional on your part. You work fast, and ethically. I can’t say I’m surprised but it is rare in any profession.”

“I enjoy what I do,” Draco said, lifting his brush again. “Though it helps you’ve grown into the perfect subject to paint.”

“It has improved my posture,” Potter said with a smile, “Molly thinks so too.”

Draco stifled a smile, and continued to mix his paints, brushing bold strokes of it across the canvas. He did enjoy painting. It wasn’t a business per se, not yet at least. But reading the papers revealed many interested clients. He knew, of course, that many would revoke their enthusiasm once they learned of his identity, but he knew that others were so desperate to share something in common with Harry Potter that they would be willing to set their differences aside. 

But he liked the smell of the paint, and the feeling of being transported elsewhere while he was painting. His mind could relax regardless of his thoughts prior to facing the canvas. Besides, he thought, it offered him an opportunity to spend so much time with Potter. 

Though he could never forget their childish rivalry, he’d seen how Potter had grown to become a respectable man. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t married to Ginny, or any other woman he liked. Perhaps his schedule was in the way, but Draco assumed anyone would put up with it to have him.

He looked up, and caught Potter gazing at him absentmindedly. Draco looked away, and was grateful to have the canvas as an excuse to do so. 

Draco cleared his voice. “Would you like me to Accio the wireless?”

“I was about to suggest that we listen to something,” Potter said. 

The sun was beginning to set, but Potter hardly seemed to notice. Draco thought they may be in this room for longer that evening, and the idea of sitting in silence for so long had his face flushing with unnecessary embarrassment. Perhaps it was the pressure to strike a conversation with the most interesting man in the world, while Draco had nothing going on in his life but for the few events that took place in the last few months. 

Draco Accioed the wireless from the living room, and ignored the memory of him last using it and the worry that had accompanied him. 

The program presenter was droning on about current news, and Potter switched channels without drawing his wand as not to disrupt his pose. Classical music played from the small device, and Draco felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. Perhaps his memories were also encouraged by Potter’s mentioning of Lucius, and the music along with Draco’s gentle strokes of brush on canvas led his mind to wander back in time. 

He thought of the extravagant parties held by the Malfoys throughout his youth, and the others he attended throughout Hogwarts hosted by his Slytherin friends. He recalled dancing with Pansy and Blaise, and suddenly remembered his encounter with the latter. 

His cheeks flushed, and he felt a sense of something akin to regret or embarrassment. He couldn’t tell a soul what had passed between the two of them. Blaise was his friend. He could never be more than a friend. They were  _ so _ different, he thought. But he remembered how ashamed Blaise must have felt at the mention of his unemployment. Draco couldn’t gather enough courage to ask about it later when he saw Pansy, but he knew it was severe from the robes he donned. They were neat and clean of course, but Draco’s trained eyes could notice the way they hugged his figure a tad too tightly to be brand new. It was in the way Blaise had carried himself, Draco thought. He knew then, that regardless of the portrait’s outcome, he owed Blaise a new set of robes. 

“What could possibly be on your mind?” 

Draco was pulled out of his thoughts nearly violently, and he checked the portrait to see if his alarm had caused it any distress. It was fine.

“Nothing that would interest you,” Draco looked up to see Potter observing him vigilantly. 

“You look flushed,” Potter pressed. “Is it too hot in here for you? I am your client but you can adjust the temperature as you like.”

“No,” Draco rushed, “I’m fine.”

He couldn’t believe he’d been caught flushing over his memories. Potter must think him a fool.

“Whatever was on your mind must be more entertaining than what’s on this program.” Potter frowned in disapproval, and changed the channel again. 

“I assure you it was anything but entertaining.”

Potter, frustrated, switched off the wireless. “Well, tell me anyway.”

Draco felt stuck. There was no way he was going to talk to Potter about his thoughts on  _ Blaise Zabini _ . 

“Come here,” he said instead, “look at the way I’ve done your hair.”

Potter obliged, dropping the previous subject reluctantly. He stood behind Draco, looking over his shoulder at the canvas. Draco could feel his breath against the back of his neck, but he ignored it as he waited for a comment.

“We’ve come a long way. It’s nearly done,” Potter said.

“What should we change?”

“Change?” Potter laughed. “It’s perfect besides it not being complete.”

“But do you like it?” Draco asked. “Because you must like it, it’s yours.”

“It’s yours until I take it and hang it up,” Potter said. “But yes, for the record, I think you did a great job with it. I look exactly like myself, though it’s strange to see myself in this way."

“I can imagine why it would seem so strange to you.”

Potter examined the portrait of himself and then met Draco’s eyes. “When did you learn how to paint so well?”

“I started sketching at Hogwarts, but I really started to paint after the war. There was nothing else for me to do. Back then even magic was restricted as there was too much of it to regulate. Do you remember?”

“Of course,” Potter looked away. “Hermione wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Well, yes. So I had nothing else to do but read and drink and paint. The Manor went to shit, but I couldn’t see a reason to change it,” Draco explained. 

“Until now,” Potter filled in, looking around the study. “It would be a waste to let this place rot. Although walking in the first day was strange, the war felt like ages ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

Potter made eye contact with him again, and each time he did Draco felt a part of his sanity disappear. “What?”

“You know,” Draco looked away. “For everything. For tainting your idea of the Manor and everything else. Making your life miserable. Hurting your friends.”

Potter looked at him. “You apologized at the trials.”

“I can apologize all I want. Don’t you think I ought to?”

“No,” Potter said. “I know what I said the other time was harsh. I could have helped you at Hogwarts instead of making your life ten times harder. I could have prevented you from taking the mark.”

At the thought of it, Draco instinctively clasped his forearm. “You’re ridiculous. Although I was young and foolish, influenced by my father, you will not take responsibility for what I’d done. There was nothing you could have done to stop me. Regardless, someone else would have taken my place. It’s useless to want to save everybody.”

Potter let out an unexpected snort. “Oh, I know that now.”

Silence settled between them, and Potter continued to examine his painting. 

“Should we stop for tonight?” Draco suggested. He could feel the strain in his legs and the slight tension between his shoulder blades. 

“Okay,” Potter said, and watched as Draco cleaned his brushes and spelled his tools to organize themselves before he led Potter to the door.

“I think with the ministry aware of our business together, this method of transportation is a toll on you,” Draco said when they stood by the door as Potter shrugged on his Muggle coat and scarf.

“I prefer it. It allows me to walk for a bit before I Apparate. Besides, the country surrounding the Manor is beautiful, but you already know that.”

Draco understood. 

“Oh right,” Potter stuck his hand into his coat’s pocket and pulled out a ministry sealed envelope. “I nearly forgot.”

Draco took the envelope from him curiously. “Are you finally going to marry Ginny Weasley?”

Potter laughed. “No. It’s for the elections. The final debate, you could say. It’s custom to have the portrait and painter there. I figured if there’s not much left of it I can pop by a few times before the event.”

It was the following week, and Draco felt an anxious tug at his gut. “Next week.”

“I was worried you would think it too soon,” Potter gnawed at his bottom lip. “It’s really just customary. But I thought you might like to take advantage of the guests being there and personally advertise your work.”

Potter had thought of everything. “We might have to meet several times until then, just to make sure it looks right.”

“I understand,” Potter said. “I might be busy preparing. Evenings are okay?”

“Of course,” Draco replied, his fingers running over the envelope’s seal. “I’ll be there.”

Potter nodded. “Bring Pansy, too.”

Draco was about to ask why, but Potter interrupted to say goodbye and left through the front door. Draco watched him from the living room window, running his knuckles over his owl’s feathers as Potter made his descent from the Manor and onto the main road before popping out of his vision. 


	15. Chapter 14

The following week was a mess of organization, sending letters to Pansy, and a panic over what to wear. Potter had to reschedule their meetings several times, and their last painting session had to be done the night before the event. 

Potter met him in the dead of night, dark circles underneath his eyes and a demand for coffee. 

“I was at the Auror’s all day,” he said, shrugging out of his coat. 

Draco pulled out a mug, and waited for the coffee to brew before he poured it in and handed it to Potter. Their fingers brushed, and Draco felt that Potter’s fingers were freezing cold. 

“Have you had anything to eat?” Draco asked. “You look famished.”

“Maybe one meal,” Potter brushed him off and curled his fingers around the mug. Draco turned on the kitchen’s heaters and prepared a sandwich from his own leftover dinner. He’d nearly gone to bed, but he’d known Potter would show up eventually, and had several cups of coffee himself. His fingers were slightly trembling, and he felt his heartbeat all over his body, but the portrait was too important. 

“I’m sorry,” Potter said. “This week was a mess. I told the Auror’s department that I was strictly off limits this week but they persisted, and we were so close to shutting the case for good that I had to show up. I wanted to. We closed the case.”

“That’s good,” Draco said for lack of a better response. 

Draco set the sandwich on the kitchen table, and took the seat facing Potter. He watched as the upcoming Minister abandoned his warm cup of coffee to devour the sandwich. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he said between mouthfuls, “delicious.”

Draco was willing to forgive his poor table manners for once. 

A few minutes later, they moved into the study to perfect the portrait. Potter didn’t need to sit on the bench for too long, Draco simply wanted to see if the colors matched and that he’d gotten all the details he wanted. He made sure the background colors blended well, and that Potter stood out brilliantly from the shadows. 

Potter’s wandering eyes were caught by the various paintings in the study. “You know, I can’t stop myself from looking at these over and over. I can’t ever get bored of them.”

“Though this one,” he said when Draco set aside his brush. “I could get bored of this one. No offense intended, only that it is boring to stare at one’s own face.”

“Nonsense,” Draco said quietly. “Your face is farthest from boring.”

Potter’s eyes gleamed in the shadowed room, and he took a step closer towards him, sending Draco’s heart to his stomach. “Yours deserves a hundred more paintings than mine.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Draco replied, busying his hands by rearranging his already arranged paints and brushes as a means to conceal his obvious embarrassment. 

“No, truly. You have that face for it. You know? The kind in French museums. It’s your nose, I reckon. Though the lack of contrast between the color of your skin and the paleness of your hair is also-” he interrupted himself and looked away. “Well, you know better than I when it comes to these things."

Draco flushed, there was no way around it. 

“Well, anyway,” said Potter, returning to the portrait at hand. “You’ve done it perfectly.”

The portrait was a complete and accurate picture of Potter. The dim lighting in the study offered a shadowed version of him, his eyes nearly hallowed, his nose defined, his jaw sharp and square. The green of his eyes, after much practice and trial and error, was the same brilliant shade that distinguished Potter from anyone Draco had ever met. 

More importantly his scar, which Draco thought would have healed after so long but remained looking just as fresh as it had in their youth, stood slightly concealed by Potter’s unmanageable curls. It appeared that way on most days, and Draco would not have it painted any other way. 

Draco, reluctantly, was finished with the painting. He knew that any further adjustments might only result in ruining the portrait, but there was a familiar itching sensation in his fingers. No work was ever fully complete. 

“I’m not sure-”

“Shut up,” Harry interrupted. 

“Would you like to see how we perform protective spells?” Draco asked, distracting them both from his insecurities.

“That sounds interesting, actually.”

Draco showed him the necessary spells and the right movements of his wrists. Then he performed a quick drying spell before he painted on a thick layer of topcoat. The portrait glistened for a moment, before the topcoat dried down.

“Is the varnish necessary?” Potter asked. “Are the spells not enough?”

“Too many spells can do more harm than good,” Draco explained. “Besides, it’s nearly instinct at this point.”

“And you learned this how?” Potter asked curiously, examining the portrait closely.

“Books,” Draco shrugged. “The catalogue I order my paints from is also useful.”

Potter seemed to linger, asking various questions as he examined Draco’s materials. Draco was fatigued, but he enjoyed the questions thoroughly. When Potter was unsure, he bit his lower lip and his cheeks flushed with a bright reddish color. Under the dim light of the study, his hair was dark as the night, his curls unruly from the long day he spent on the field. Though his complexion was still somewhat pale, and his robes were wrinkled and perhaps sweaty. 

“You seem exhausted,” Draco finally announced as Potter began to yawn and ramble in his talk. 

“I’m all right,” Potter said, but then yawned again, so violently that there were tears in his eyes.

“Go home, Potter. We’re finished here.”

“But I liked it here,” he confessed. “I like the study, and the smell of the paint. It’s the last time I’ll be here.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Draco reminded him.

“But you’ll be so  _ busy _ ,” Potter said. “You’ll be out of my league.”

Draco wanted to laugh. “And you’ll be Minister. You’ll hardly have time for me.”

“Nonsense,” Potter said, inching closer to where Draco stood by the door. “I like the Manor too much.”

Draco felt warmth flood his chest. He knew exactly what Potter meant. He understood because he too loved the Manor too much to abandon it, despite everybody’s recommendation. Only death could part them.

“I can sleep on the sofa,” Draco said. “You take my bed. The guest room is a mess.”

“No,” Potter yawned again. “I’ll floo home.”

“You’ll splinch yourself to death.”

“No.”

“Yes." 

Draco shoved Potter out of the study and up the stairs to his bedroom. 

Harry Potter in his bed sounded ridiculous and incomprehensible. But Harry Potter was in his bed soon, tucked into Draco’s sheets, staring at the charmed ceiling of his bedroom with amazement. 

“Goodnight, Potter.”

-

Potter was gone in the morning, and Draco was left with a tight kink in his neck from his collapse on the sofa. 

Potter hadn’t left a note behind, though Draco’s bed was a mess of sheets and covers, and he assumed Potter had left in a hurry. 

It was late in the afternoon before Draco could feel any sense of ease. His stomach was a knot of nerves and dread at the prospects of the upcoming night. He covered the portrait carefully and sent it to Potter’s office via owl, and that was the end of  _ that _ , he thought. He felt naked and vulnerable as he looked around the empty study. He could hardly believe he spent all those hours and all those weeks inside that very room only to have the canvas flown away, his feelings and daydreams gone away with it. 

Pansy came over to comfort him, and so that they could leave together. He asked how her fiancé felt about it.

“He hardly worries about the two of us,” she said as she spelled the kettle on to make tea. “Anyway, we saw you and Blaise the other night.”

Draco flushed, but made no comment. The image of him and Blaise did nothing to soothe his unease. He could already imagine all the eyes on him and Pansy, wondering who had invited them to such an esteemed event. They would be regarded as scum of the Earth, he thought. Though perhaps he _should_ be regarded as such, but Pansy was nearly innocent. 

“Your robes arrived?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“And they fit well?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course. What of your gown?”

Her eyes glowed as she poured tea into their mugs, and they moved into the living room to sit by the fire. “Oh, it’s fabulous. You’ll go green with envy, I think. Will thinks it’s absolutely gorgeous.”

“I’m sure he does,” Draco scoffed.

Pansy went upstairs to get ready, and Draco followed a few moments later to take a shower and make sure his robes were ironed perfectly, and that his hair would be in place before the evening. 

When it was time to leave, Draco and Pansy took a shot of vodka each before stepping into the fireplace.

Pansy  _ did  _ look gorgeous, as Draco knew she would. Her gown hugged her upper body wonderfully, before loosening above her hips and expanding into a large skirt of glittering dark tool. Her face was painted simply, her lips a natural color and her eyes only darkened slightly as not to steal attention from her dress. 

In her heels, she was nearly Draco’s height, and she clasped her arm around his comfortably as they entered the ballroom at a venue paid for by the Ministry. Pansy said so, because Pansy knew these things.

They attracted several curious glances. Some stared quietly in astonishment, while others whispered rapidly. Draco instantly tensed, his stomach tightening. He felt dizzy and nauseous and had to force himself to breathe. If Pansy noticed, she didn’t let on, and only smiled at him and tightened her hold on his arm. It comforted him to know she was holding on to him. It grounded him.

Potter had spotted him before Draco noticed he was there at all. He handed him a glass of wine, and Pansy let go of Draco to look for a snack, or so she alleged. 

“You clean up nice,” Potter said, and he stood close to Draco. Some people continued to stare, and it took all of Draco’s strength not to curl into himself.

“You do too,” he replied, and this was true. Potter’s hair looked as kept as it could. His skin was clear and fresh, dark circles and bloodshot eyes gone. His robes were a dark midnight blue, and his golden glasses tucked away in favor of contact lenses. “You’re not wearing your glasses.”

Potter laughed. “No. Hermione and Ginny insisted I could go without them for at least one night.”

“They suit you,” Draco found himself saying. “And I gather they’re more practical in your case.”

“Yeah,” Potter said, and then paused and observed him carefully. “I should have left a note this morning.”

Draco hoped no one around them could hear their conversation, though they stood so close to one another and spoke nearly in whispers, that he was certain no one else could hear. “Nonsense.”

“Your bed is awfully comfortable, though. I’ll have to ask where you got your mattress from because I haven’t slept that well in ages. I think maybe I overslept. I promise I usually clean after myself.”

Draco flushed violently. “It’s an old bed.”

“Perhaps that’s the trick,” Potter smiled, and something or someone caught his attention because he clasped his hand around Draco’s arm in a see-you-later manner, and walked away with appalling confidence. 

Draco nearly despised him. 

“Oh, you could look a little less infatuated,” Pansy whispered to him, and took the untouched glass of wine in his hand and had a sip. 

“I’m not infatuated,” Draco shot back. 

“Well, whatever it is you should stop staring at him and actually  _ do _ something.” She smiled. “Oh, but he looks so delicious these days I understand.”

“I hate you both,” he said. 

But he watched as Potter talked to the other guests, and hardly listened to Pansy’s remarks. 

Potter was speaking to one man in particular. He was tall, handsome, and put-together. His eyes were a brilliant blue that even Draco could see them so far away, and his dark hair was swept back perfectly. Potter laughed and several people turned to stare. Draco felt sick again, and it didn’t help when the man smiled. It was a captivating smile. Potter didn’t notice the way his companion was eyeing him up and down, or the way he ran his hand over Potter’s arm and leaned in closer each time he spoke.

Draco swallowed, and quickly looked away. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to be Potter’s main focus of attention. To have Potter look at him like that, or touch him like that. He could hardly picture it. Draco was taller, yes, but he was sickly pale, his nose too sharp and his hair dull from lack of proper care. For now, he could see why anyone as handsome as that tall man would attract Potter’s attention so violently. 

“Oh, Draco,” Pansy said, setting a pitying hand over his shoulder. 

Draco pushed it off, but before he could say anything Hermione Granger walked up to them. Her pregnancy was visible now, Draco thought. She wore a flowing dress which only slightly concealed her bump, and her thick brown curls were smooth and perfectly coiled, pinned only at the front while the rest fell over her bare shoulders beautifully.

“Malfoy,” she met his eyes, and then turned to Pansy, “and Parkinson.”

“Well, soon Rosier actually,” Pansy corrected, twisting her arm through Draco’s.

Hermione glanced between them and rested her hand over her stomach. “Congratulations. May I speak with Malfoy in private?”

Draco glanced at Pansy. “I tell her everything.”

Hermione was visibly frustrated, but only continued, while Pansy preened. “Harry has extra security here tonight, but we have reason to believe you may be targeted. They’re revealing the portraits soon, and when they call you up to stand by Harry, I think it best to have you prepared. You have your wand?”

“Of course,” Draco startled, and his hand instinctively flew to where he had it holstered under his robes. 

“Good,” then she looked at Pansy. “You’ll be fine, I think.”

“Reassuring,” Pansy said.

Hermione was about to turn before she hesitated. “I saw the portrait. You did a brilliant job, Malfoy.”

“Thank you.”

She nodded and then turned away. Draco watched as she walked up to Ron Weasley and smiled at him as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed a kiss at the top of her head.

“Gross,” Pansy said. “They’re  _ still _ in love.”

Draco snickered, and they poked fun at Gryffindors when they could. He forced himself to forget about Potter, the tall man almost bending forward to speak to him, and the possible threat on his life. Pansy whispered a protective spell on him when the music played more softly to a comfortable stop, and the lights dimmed so people could focus on the slightly taller platform at the front of the room. 

Nervous but shaking it off, Draco ignored the eyes that followed him onto the stage as he stood beside Potter. 

Potter’s speech was programmed as the last of three, but Draco could hardly listen to any of it as his nerves tended to drown out all sound in the room, and he trained his eyes to focus at the back of the room, occasionally glancing over at Pansy to calm his nerves. Potter may have said something funny because the audience snickered. 

Someone spelled the cover off his portrait, and the audience released a satisfied and audible “ _ aw _ ” at the view of it. People clapped, and it seemed no one cared that Draco was the one responsible for painting it. 

Potter glanced at him and smiled so warmly, that Draco found himself forced to smile back. They shook hands cordially, as did the previous candidates. 

Then the lights were turned on brighter, the music started to play again, and Potter’s hand withdrew from his. Draco looked away and descended from the platform, seeking Pansy. 

He was midway through the approaching crowd, people shaking his hand and slipping business cards in his pockets when he heard a  _ bang _ . 

Someone yelled, and Draco only remembered grabbing a hold onto Pansy and being pushed to the ground. There was chaos everywhere, the platform where he stood moments ago was covered in smoke, and many began Disapparating from the ballroom. 

Draco caught a glance of Granger’s beautiful curls as she was dragged under a table by Weasley, and Draco did the same with Pansy.

“Go,” he told her, when he felt they were safe. “I’ll meet you at the Manor, but you must go now.”

“You’re coming with me,” she said. Her lipstick was smudged, and her eyes were wet with unshed tears as she grasped his hands and pinched his skin with her sharp nails. 

“I’ll wait here first. They might need my help.”

“No,” she shook her hair and gripped harder. “I won’t let you get hurt, you idiot.”

“Potter needs me,” he said, his heart beating furiously in his chest. “I was alway better at dark spells than he was.”

“That’s bullshit,” she said. Her harsh language caused them both to pause, but they had no time to address it.

“William is going to kill me if you're hurt. Go, Pansy.”

She shook her head, but he managed to loosen her grip and watched as she Disapperated. 

Underneath the table, he could hear the sound of spells being cast, and saw the colors of those spells flash behind the fabric of the tablecloth. 

Some guests had no chance to get away because he could still hear screaming, and the anguished sound of someone calling for help.

Without thinking about it for longer, Draco took a peak underneath the tablecloth and assessed the situation. 

Potter and Weasley were casting spells left and right along with a handful of who appeared to be Aurors. The other remaining guests attempted to aid them while others helped heal some of the fallen. 

Draco failed to recognize their assailants, though they hardly resembled the men who aided his father and Voldemort’s agenda, and he relaxed if only for a moment. It didn’t matter who they were, he thought, and hurried over to Potter.

“What are you doing, Malfoy?” Potter continued to cast spells but shoved Draco aside. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Gone was Potter's composed appearance, replaced by the disheveled look of someone who may or may not have suffered a jinx. His brows formed a permanent frown. 

“I’ll be fine, and a thank you would be more appreciated.”

He began to cast a  _ Cruciatus _ . 

“The Wizengamot will have you punished-” Potter snarled, pausing his assaults for a moment to properly stop Draco from casting any more Unspeakables. He stood in front of him, arm stretched out as though to protect Draco. 

Draco shoved him hard, and muttered a quick  _ Protego _ as a spell nearly hit Potter. 

“I’d rather not be blamed for your death,” Draco replied, and continued to send curses at the dark cloaked men who approached them behind the platform. “Worry about it later if you’d like, we are rather preoccupied at the moment.” 

"Will you stay behind me?" Potter shouted, and cast another blinding spell. 

"You nearly caught a curse," Draco said, ducking underneath Harry's arm. "Will you trust me to protect myself, Potter?"

Ron Weasley pushed the two of them out of the way. “Bickering won’t help either of you.”

Surrounded, Draco realized they were awfully outnumbered. It was impossible to imagine a scenario where all three of them could get away unscathed. 

“What do they want?” he asked, nearly breathless as his shoulder bumped into Potter’s. They were standing so closely, any slip up and both of them would be injured.

“To have me killed, probably,” Potter answered, shooting another curse and having it bounce off. “Fucking hell, they’re spell-proof. Ron, we’ll have to Apparate.”

“We’ll get splinched,” Weasley replied, shooting another protective spell over them before sending another bright green curse at their enemies. 

“It’s that or possibly  _ dying _ and I won’t have Hermione after me.”

Draco felt pain squeeze his chest, remembering uttering nearly identical words to Pansy. “Your Aurors need better training.”

“Sod off.”

“What now?” Potter had stalled the others by sending Aurors to the front line by the wave of his arm, and casting the chandelier to drop onto the main group of men approaching. It was a momentary distraction, but one long enough to allow them to duck behind the platform. “We’re outnumbered and I suspect they’re covered in resistible gear.”

Draco coughed, the smoke by the platform stinging his eyes. 

“Apparate,” Ron insisted. “All of us. To the Aurors’ Department so we can alert the others for backup.”

“It’ll be too late,” Potter said quickly. 

“This was your idea. There’s no time for arguing.” Ron glanced at Draco. “Malfoy.”

Draco gripped one of Potter’s shoulders while Ron grasped the other. Before Potter could protest, they Apparated just as their momentary diversion collapsed, and Draco saw a flash of green before squeezing his eyes shut. 


	16. Chapter 15

Chaos erupted at the Auror Department. 

Draco hardly registered what happened, only that he felt incredibly ill and weak. Someone yelled, and Draco thought he heard Ron directing the Aurors to go back to the venue.

Confused, nauseous, and dizzy, Draco hardly registered when someone cast an  _ Immobulus _ . He fell stiff to the ground. 

Draco was a former Death Eater with his wand clasped between his fingers. He understood the confusion. However, the Aurors who levitated him to the cells at the Auror Department, failed to notice the wand was still in his grasp. 

Not that it mattered, Draco thought as he felt overwhelmed with fatigue and helplessness. There wasn’t anything he could do with a wand under that charm. 

He lay on the ground of the locked cell for what felt like hours but was perhaps much less, his head throbbing and his muscles aching. None of the Aurors who captured him were around. They’d cast a charm on him, made jarring remarks about Lucius, and then hurried to receive further instructions. 

Draco nearly lost all hope, and nearly lost consciousness as well when he heard the familiar voice of Ron Weasley. 

“All right, who the fuck is responsible for this muck up,” he yelled. Several Aurors undid the charm and unlocked the cell but the damage had been done. 

Draco slowly sat up against a wall, breathless and aching all over. He felt like utter shite, and he wasn’t afraid to say it. 

“We thought he’d been with the attackers,” someone confessed. 

Weasley rolled his eyes. “If you’d read the list of guests that was sent to all of you last week, you would have known that Malfoy was a guest. We haven’t had anything against him in nearly a decade.”

Weasley walked over and helped Draco up. “Sorry, mate.”

They walked back to the main office, where Hermione quickly uttered an evaluation spell and shook her head. “He’s perfectly fine.”

Clearing his throat, Draco asked with a rasp, “What happened?”

Weasley glanced at Granger and hesitated. “I remember Harry deflecting a spell and when we got here he was gone.”

“Gone?”

“The Aurors are going back to the venue,” Hermione said, “we think he might still be there.”

Draco finally accepted the glass of water shoved into his hands and drank large gulps of it. “Who were they? I didn’t recognize any of them.”

“You wouldn’t,” Hermione said. “We think they’re from the drug cartel Harry had arrested yesterday. All the others are in Azkaban but we think this group was well hidden. No one had confessed anyone else was involved and we had no suspicion of otherwise.”

“Potter,” Draco said. “Idiot.”

Hermione laughed, but there was tension between her brows. “I have to go look for him, Ron. Will you be okay? Perhaps have someone question Malfoy in case he saw anything.”

Ron frowned and reached for her arm. “You’re not going back there."

“No, I'll ask one of the Aurors to look out for him and send a Patronus. In the meantime I’ll check the Burrow and Grimmauld Place.” 

Ron nodded and kissed her for a quick moment before Hermione took the floo. 

“I’ll do the questioning,” Ron gestured for Draco to follow him. They walked down the hall to an empty office, and from the moving images across the dark wood desk, Draco assumed it belonged to Ron. “I don’t trust the other dolts around here.”

Draco took the seat facing him, and instantly felt fatigued and upset. What was Potter thinking deflecting the spell while they were Apparating? It was basic Defense Against the Dark Arts, he thought. 

“Coffee?” Ron asked.

“Please.”

Ron brought over two steaming mugs and sat silently for a moment. His eyes wandered over one particular image of the famous trio, and his shoulders drooped tiredly. 

“Do you remember anything odd about the group of men who attacked us?” Ron began, drawing a sheet of paper near him and dipping his quill in dark ink. The office was poorly lit, and Draco marveled at how he was able to see clearly enough to write. 

“No,” Draco answered, rubbing his hand over his sore temples. “I only heard them at first before pulling Pansy aside. I could ask her.”

“I’ll call her to my office tomorrow,” Ron said, noting it down. “Nothing too public so tell her not to worry about it getting on the papers.”

“That would be best,” Draco paused, “thank you.”

Ron simply nodded. “And she Apparated?”

“Yes,” Draco confirmed, kneading his fingers. “I told her I’d meet her at the Manor. I was afraid if she stayed she would get hurt.”

“Of course,” Ron said. “And then?”

Draco continued to explain how he’d checked to see they were outnumbered, and then quickly rushed to help Potter.

“I counted around 20,” Ron said. “Would you say you agree?”

“Yes, 18 or 20 of them,” Draco nodded. 

“What was your motive in aiding?” 

“What?” Draco frowned, and his body went cold and rigid. He grasped his mug harder. 

Ron looked up at him and repeated the question slowly. “It’s policy to ask. As far as I know you’re not an Auror. I don’t remember you being that great at Defense Against the Dark Arts either.”

Draco flushed. “My motive was to help.”

“Work on that,” Ron said carefully. “Not everyone would believe you’ve changed.”

“I don’t necessarily care what they think,” Draco said hotly. He felt himself flush at his sudden outburst. “Is it not expected of anyone capable to aid?”

“Malfoy, those men weren’t your average attackers. They were skilled in the darkest forms of magic. Potter and I were going after them for  _ years _ . They had deadly potions on them.”

Draco licked his lips and took a sip of his coffee. “I wasn’t aware.”

Ron looked at him like he had grown another nose, before taking more notes. “I have to ask again. Do you remember anything?”

“No,” Draco said. “Only how many of them there were, and how outnumbered the Aurors were. It was strange.”

“What do you mean  _ strange _ ?”

“I mean,” Draco cleared his throat, “It looked to me as if this event was important and took several months to prepare. It was strange that there weren’t that many Aurors on standby. Did no one set dark magic detectors? Were there none of those Muggle security cameras?”

Draco paused, aware that his words could easily strike a nerve and have him end up in another cell for the remainder of the night. He bit his tongue. 

Instead of being met with anger, Ron only sunk into his seat and sighed. “Those are valid points. Thank you, Malfoy.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes,” Ron said. “Is there anything else you would like to add?”

“No,” Draco had hardly touched his coffee, but he took a generous gulps of it now. “I hope you catch them."

Ron stood up and watched him carefully. “I hope so, too.” 

Draco left the office and stood aimlessly for a moment. He didn’t know what to do. He knew he had to return to the Manor to make sure Pansy was all right but he also felt restless, and the last thing he wanted was to go to bed. 

Not while there were dangerous wizards attacking Aurors, not when Draco finally realized what he’d done when he cast a  _ Cruciatus _ . He cursed underneath his breath as he moved towards an Apparition point. He knew he should have listened to Potter. Potter who was probably still fighting, stubborn and strong headed as ever. Potter, who had grabbed him and shoved him away as though  _ protecting  _ him.

Draco wanted to laugh. Potter had no reason protecting him. Potter had no reason deflecting a spell only milliseconds from Apparating, as though he was thick in the skull, and Draco hated him for it. He hated Potter’s stubborn ways, hated the way he could somewhat still feel his solid grip on Draco’s arm. 

He hated that even while Apparating he still thought of the way Potter had looked that night, put together and then quickly disheveled from the attack. 

He landed in the Manor’s study, in the exact spot he usually stood to paint Potter. Except now the canvas and easel were gone, and Draco felt the loss too painfully. 

He stood, examining the empty study. At night, only a little bit of light shone through, just enough to allow Draco a vague idea of the room’s content. 

“Draco?”

Draco was shaken from his thoughts at the sound of Pansy’s voice, and he left the study to find her standing by the bottom of the stairs. 

“There you are,” she said, audibly relieved. She rushed towards him and quickly pulled him in. “Are you all right? You’d taken too long I was worried, and absolutely  _ nothing _ is on the wireless.”

“I’m all right,” Draco said. “Nothing happened.”

Pansy pulled away and looked at him closely. “Darling, you’re shivering.”

“Must be the ghastly circulation at the Auror Department,” he said. “They had the audacity to question me.”

Pansy smiled a little weakly. “Draco, you fool. I know you too well for lies."

They slumped on the sofa and shared a bottle of whiskey.

“William says hello,” Pansy said. “I told him I would be spending the night.”

Draco leaned closer to her, while the fire blazed across them. “There’s no need for that.”

“Perhaps you have no need for it, but I am willing to set aside my pride and admit I am rather shaken up.”

They were silent for a moment, and the last spell continued to replay in the back of Draco’s mind. He could hear, still, the sound of shouting and the bangs of curses and Unforgivables. He still remembered the way Ron had grasped his hand, and how Draco found Harry’s. He could still feel, a little less avidly, his ears ringing from the sounds of an attack. 

“It was horrible,” he finally said.

“For a moment it reminded me of-” Pansy was quiet, and took the bottle from him. “You know.”

“I know,” he said, and pressed into her a little more closely. “I thought the same.”

They were familiar with the sounds of dark spells, it was still not foreign to them. They could hardly forget the war, as though it had only happened last week. A distant memory at times, but when triggered by such an event had them relive the entire thing all over again. Draco was suddenly exhausted. 

He was exhausted from memories of the war, suddenly filling his mind. He was exhausted from the night’s events.

“Drag me to bed,” he groaned, and Pansy pulled him off the sofa.

“Only a few steps,” she said, as they slowly climbed up the stairs.

Draco’s room was comforting at once. It was familiar and safe. 

The bed slightly smelled like Potter, and he hoped Pansy wouldn’t notice. He was too tired to say anything, only lifted the covers and sunk into his sheets, hardly registering Pansy slipping out of her gown to join him. 

He closed his eyes, and realized for a moment that he had at some point stopped shivering, before sleep took hold of him and he thought of nothing else. 


	17. Chapter 16

Draco woke up slowly, peacefully. His muscles were sore, his chest tight with the memory of last night’s events. 

He saw Pansy was still asleep, hair disheveled, legs nearly taking up the entire bed. He smiled a little, and slowly withdrew to visit the bathroom before carefully walking down the stairs. 

He made breakfast in the kitchen. The windows revealed a beautiful day of green grass and blue sky, it was odd for that time of year. He watched as his eggs fried, hands cold and feet even colder. 

Draco carried the breakfast into the living room. There was no sign of letters or news, nothing to indicate anything had changed from last night. His owl looked at him, bored. She was beautiful, he thought as he walked over to pet her. Orange eyes and neat white feathers. 

“Astrid,” he said out loud. “That would get Potter off my back.” 

She hooted, shuffling closer to him and nipping his finger. “He would spoil you better, I know, but I was in need of you and I still am.”

Pansy climbed down the stairs sluggishly, dressed in one of Draco’s shirts, too long at the sleeves. 

“Oh, you made breakfast I could kiss you,” she said, heading straight towards the food. “And  _ tea _ .”

Draco laughed and joined her. 

They didn’t talk about what happened, only the business cards pressed into Draco’s hands and more about the Manor’s current state of distress. 

Draco’s mind was distracted, still lingering on the idea that his portrait of Potter was finished. That there was nothing left there, that he felt free and caged all at once. It wasn’t fair that he had a little taste of Potter’s world only to have it taken from him.

For a wild moment he considered demanding more time on the portrait, claiming it was somewhat unfinished. But he knew what happened when he lingered on a painting for too long. That eventually he would alter it too far and it would become unrecognizable. 

He would have to let it go, he knew. Like he had to learn to let go of parties and social events. How he had learned to let go of Hogwarts and Lucius. 

Pansy touched her hand to his arm gently. “In the end it turns out Potter’s portrait was good for you after all. I’m glad I pushed.”

“I’m indebted to you,” he said without thinking. 

She smiled. “You don’t regret it? You won’t hold it against me?”

“Why would I do any of that?”

He disliked the way her expression softened when she looked at him, like he was a lost and homesick first year. “Draco, you’re hopeless.”

Draco took a mouthful of his tea, and then changed the subject to summer weddings and Rosier estates. 

* * *

Completing Potter’s portrait turned out to be the least of his concerns. 

He was sending letters to various names he found on business cards when his fireplace roared and demanded his attention.

By then it had been nearly 24 hours since the attack on Potter, and the attackers were captured. Ron had released a statement earlier that day, assuring that a trial was on its way and the guilty were locked up. 

Pansy had returned to William after breakfast, a soft kiss pressed to Draco’s cheek as a goodbye. 

“Send me a letter when you want to talk, all right?” she asked. 

He had nodded, too tired of the conversation to ask questions and withdraw. 

Now, he crouched by the fireplace, surprised.

Hermione’s hair was wild, framing her face wonderfully. “Malfoy. Good, you’re home.”

“Granger,” he said, confusion tainting his tone. “Is this about the attack? I heard the wireless.”

“A little,” her eyes were searching in that way he found alarming and intimidating. “Only that I can’t seem to find Potter. Have you heard from him? I thought perhaps he was at the venue but the Aurors we sent said he wasn’t there and other witnesses said they saw him disappear with you and Ron. I thought perhaps he was hurt, but he’s been avoiding my floo calls and not responding to my letters.”

Draco sat forwards and frowned. “I haven’t seen him since.”

Granger visibly paled. “I need to go. Sorry for disturbing you.”

“Granger, wait,” he said quickly, curling his fingers into fists. “Where could he be? Is...is this normal for Potter? To disappear?”

“No,” she said. “Maybe he needs a break from the case but I can’t think of where he is or what he could be doing. And without leaving a note? He doesn’t take breaks."

She was thinking hurriedly, he knew. He could nearly see the gears turning in her mind, her eyes calculating and sharp. “Well, anyway. Let me know if you hear from him.”

Draco swallowed. “Yes, of course.”

“Thank you, Malfoy,” and her image disappeared. 

Draco leaned back, confused and startled. That Harry Potter could disappear without a trace was unimaginable. That he was there only last night, gripping his arm. Perhaps he  _ was _ on vacation. Perhaps Hermione was too confident in thinking she knew Potter, perhaps she hardly knew him at all. 

Draco shook his head, knowing he was being ridiculous. No one knew Potter better than Hermione, who was dazed and pale with concern. Draco could hardly think why she’d told him, could hardly fathom why she would assume Harry would be with him. With Draco? At the Manor? Draco felt sick. 

He paced the living room and then the study. It pained him to be in there, the scent of paints and oils now newly associated with the heavy presence of Potter, with his unruly hair and gorgeous tanned skin. 

Draco hardly knew what to do with himself. He scrambled out of the study, to clear his mind, and then stumbled to Astrid. 

_ H,  _

_ Write to me when you receive this. Urgently.  _

_ D _

He wanted to think that for some reason Potter would respond to him. That for some reason he would disregard Hermione’s efforts and contact  _ him _ instead. Perhaps he truly was injured, perhaps there was an inexplicable reason, but he  _ would _ respond to Draco.

“Quickly,” he said to Astrid, hooking the note to her talons. 

Astrid returned with the note still attached to her, and then Draco knew something was wrong. 

He felt it curl at the bottom of his stomach, like how he had felt a sense of dread that time he received the Ministry letter. In the sense that he was certain. 

Yet, recalling Potter’s image, he could hardly imagine him being in danger. The same man who had defeated Voldemort in his youth could hardly disappear without a trace. Draco was certain of it, just as he was certain something  _ off.  _ Potter had to be okay, because he was Potter.

Perhaps Hermione was wrong, perhaps Astrid had found Grimmauld Place empty. There was bound to be an explanation. 

The fireplace blazed again and this time Draco rushed forward without thinking, and the look on Hermione’s face was serious and solemn. 

“Malfoy,” she said. “What do you know of Patronuses?”

“A fair amount,” he said, confused. “Is this about Potter?”

“I sent my Patronus to find him and it looked lost and returned without a response,” she said carefully. “What could that mean?”

Draco could only think of Potter, lost. He squinted, but his mind strained to come up with a response. “I don’t understand.”

“My Patronus can’t find Harry,” she said. “What if he can’t be found?”

Draco was quiet, but his mind was reeling with ideas. “That’s impossible, he's Harry, he can’t be lost.”

“I’ve already told Ron,” she said softly. “We’re scouring the venue. I think you should step through and come with me.”

Draco, dazed and shocked by the quick sequence of events could only comply with Hermione’s unquestionable authority. He stepped through the fireplace without hesitation.

They side-alonged from Hermione’s office at the Ministry. The venue was packed with Aurors and Ministry officials of all ranks. There had been a quick search for Potter, considering his running for Minister and being a high profile figure. Losing Potter would be questionable to the integrity of the Ministry. 

Draco understood, yet he was suddenly nervous and on edge. So many officials in one place hardly ever meant something good would come of it. His eyes scanned the venue, only last night had it looked so different. Only last night he had stood right there by the platform, shaking Potter’s hand. Over there, by the tables, he had watched as another man had leaned in and touched Potter. Under the table, he had sent Pansy away before quickly rushing to Potter’s side. 

The venue was changed. The tables were tipped over and pushed against the walls, the broken chandelier shoved to the side. There were shadowed streaks of green and black, evidence of dark magic illuminated across the walls by several analysis spells. Aurors scoured the area, tracing footsteps and finding broken glass and damaged objects. 

“Careful,” Hermione said to him, as they walked along the venue. “Some objects were cleared of curses, but there is always a chance that we could misstep and unleash something dark.”

“I shouldn’t be here,” Draco said, after a moment. He began to attract a fair amount of stares and looks of suspicion. “This has nothing to do with me.”

“You were here,” Hermione said. “When he was last seen. There could be something you know that no one else is aware of.”

“Weasley was there, too.”

“I love Ron,” she said. “But you are far more attentive in some areas. Besides, you worked with Harry for a long time. You must be privy to information Ron and I are ignorant to.”

“Not as privy as you assume,” he said, but felt his cheeks flush. 

Now, standing in the middle of the damaged venue he could hardly believe how many hours he had spent facing Potter, that at some point they were nearly establishing a normal acquaintance void of childish malice. 

Hermione spared a wavering smile in his direction, and then introduced Draco to a group of Aurors who questioned him with relatively professional cordiality. 

“I already asked Malfoy everything you know,” Ron interrupted halfway through, clasping a hand over Draco’s shoulder. “I think you could spare him for a moment.” 

Draco was struck by Ron’s change in character, could hardly believe he was once the tall and prickly boy with a lean figure. He had filled out in muscles and strength, his childish cheeks squared. He was no longer gangly, but sure and authoritative. It was evident in the way the other Aurors dispersed, in the way they hardly questioned his commands. 

“Follow me,” he said quietly, and led Draco down a long path outside the venue and into a small back room. 

“I prefer if we kept secretive about this,” Ron said, as they joined Hermione. “For your own good.”

“There’s something you should see,” Hermione said, pale and visibly antsy as she placed a hand over her belly. “I don’t know what to say other than  _ look _ .”

She stepped away and behind her Draco saw what he hadn’t noticed upon entry. It was a framed canvas, propped up on a desk. The room must have been used for administrative purposes, it was piled with papers and books. 

But the canvas was more important because it was Potter’s portrait. 

Forgotten in the exchange of spells, no one had thought to check its whereabouts. 

“I found it tipped over,” Hermione explained. “Luck, I assume.”

“What happened to it?” Draco asked, because it was Potter’s portrait but altered. 

It was Potter, but his green eyes had disappeared behind his eyelids. He looked asleep.

“Why does it look like that?” he asked, because Hermione hadn’t responded. She was gnawing at her bottom lip, staring wordlessly at the portrait. 

“Perhaps a combination of spells,” Hermione said. “I don’t know, there’s no way to know.”

“What do you think it means?” he asked, looking at her. “The paint is dry, but his eyes are shut. Oil does not dry so quickly.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, shaking her head. “But it’s impossible.”

“Impossible?” Ron asked, and Draco had nearly forgotten he was there because it was too much, his ideas were too much. 

Hermione looked at Draco carefully, whose heart was beating rapidly as he stared at the painting.  _ His _ painting, but not his at all. 

It felt like a dream. 

“That Harry could be trapped in there, asleep.”


	18. Chapter 17

The Prophet caught wind of the situation eventually, though no one could explain where Harry had gone. 

_ Savior of the Wizarding World: In Need of Saving? _

It had been 3 days of Harry’s disappearance, and everyone involved with magic was aware. 

Panic ensued, questions over the return of Voldemort or a more evil being. 

_ Is that it? Is that the end of Harry Potter? Did someone finally get him?  _

Only Ron, Hermione, and Draco knew the truth. 

Harry Potter was trapped in his portrait, a result of a cross-fire.

“It happens,” Hermione had explained when they first found the portrait. “When dark magic and protection spells are in contact. It is possible, in theory.”

“In theory,” Draco had repeated. “Because in practicality that is  _ impossible _ .”

“Nothing is,” Hermione had said, and Draco remembered suddenly what it was like to go to school with her. How stubborn she was, how adamant she was on finding truth and answer.

They had thought it best to leave the portrait with Draco.

“Why?” Draco had asked, because he still flinched each time he glanced at it, and could hardly stomach the idea of it being in  _ his _ Manor. 

“Too many questions if we left it at the Ministry,” Hermione said. “We can’t risk anyone suspecting you.”

Of course, Draco had thought.  _ Of course they would think that way _ . 

“And Ginny and Mum are always at our place,” Ron said. 

“I have visitors too,” he said weakly, and they saw plainly through him. 

So, Potter’s portrait found its way back to the Manor.

Three days after Harry’s disappearance, Hermione paced the study. 

It was odd, Draco realized, to have the two of them in the study. This had been his room, where he had spent time with Harry. Where he had mulled over the tone of skin and the vibrancy of his eyes. Where he had spent hours obsessing over his physique, how his broad shoulders took up much space on the canvas. 

Where Harry had complimented him, where he had leaned in and said the paintings were  _ lovely _ . 

Draco looked away, unable to glance at the portrait without remembering everything. 

Potter was gone, indefinitely. He was trapped, that was their best guess. But it could be anything else. He could be gone, lost between the worlds of apparition. 

“I could contact McGonagall,” Hermione said, fingers running through her hair and she pushed it from her face. “She must know something about portraits.”

“Was there any unusual spell you cast?” Ron asked Draco. “You know, when painting?”

“Nothing that could trap him,” Draco responded, feeling sick. “Only protective spells to seal the paint and reduce the chances of color fading.”

“That could have triggered the other spell to trap Harry,” Hermione explained.

“But aren’t trapping spells specific?” Draco asked, mind racing as he tried to recall his lessons from Hogwarts. “They are powerful spells made with intention.”

“Perhaps they meant to trap him at the venue,” Hermione went on, finger on her chin as she examined the portrait. “Only they were pushed by a spell and their aim was rubbish. Something like an anti-Disapparition jinx.”

“That’s too specific,” Draco said. “It would have prevented me or Ron from Disapparition as well. And to assume it was coincidental-”

“It’s our best guess,” Hermione looked up and spoke sharply. “The sooner we agree on a reason the quicker we are to finding a solution.”

“Kingsley demands an explanation,” Ron added on, looking nervously between the two others. “We have to tell them something.”

“This is our best bet,” Hermione said, reiterating, and now her tone was softer as she stepped away from the portrait and looked at Draco properly. “He was meant to be Minister.”

“He’s not gone,” Ron said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “He’s there, we’ll get him out in no time.”

Draco failed to share his confidence. Hermione went away to contact McGonagall and Ron was eventually called to his office. 

And then Draco was forced to confront the portrait, because there was no one else to distract him and he hadn’t the heart to examine it. 

When he did, he felt regret. 

This was not his portrait, this was not how it was supposed to be. Harry was supposed to be Minister, the portrait was supposed to hang on the Ministry wall. He was supposed to go on and do something heroic, something brave which suited his character. And Draco was meant to forget him, only be grateful and cordial. Not  _ this _ , not have his image confront him every morning. 

“Idiot,” he muttered, spine curved, hands shoved into his pockets. 

The portrait was silent. 

Harry’s eyes were still hidden behind his eyelids, his lips shut tight. His warm complexion was slightly paler than the colors Draco had mixed. His hair was the same, however. A mess of wild and untamed curls. 

Draco reached out carefully, his fingertips brushing over the paint’s rough texture. 

It was nothing like touching Harry’s skin, which was smooth and soft. 

Draco withdrew, not sure whether to cover the portrait with cloth or to have it confront him violently. It all felt rather brutish and unjust. 

What if it had been Draco instead? He thought jarringly. If it had been him would anyone bother to get him out?

“Maybe you would,” he said quietly, eyes skimming over Harry’s unconscious image. “You and that abhorrent savior complex.”

There was no response. Draco was unsurprised. 

-

_ Draco,  _

_ McGonagall has confirmed my suspicions. We believe Harry may be trapped. What it means that he is unconscious, we have no clue. I will be gathering books on the subject, and would like to bring them over to the Manor. Let us know which days are suitable. In the meantime, Kingsley should be releasing a statement soon. Ron says to be careful, as you may receive cursed or angry letters.  _

_ Hermione _

McGonagall visited the Manor with Hermione the next day, her gray brows knitted with confusion and wonder. 

“Yes, it is as we feared,” she said. 

Her visit was short, her attitude towards Draco respectable and neutral. 

She gave him a brief nod before taking the floo on her way out. 

Hermione lingered, eyeing the study and the various paintings still sacked against the walls. 

“I brought the books,” she said suddenly as Draco wondered when she would go home so he could sink into the sofa and drown himself in liquor. 

She unshrunk them from her pockets. 

“Here, you should start with this one. I already got through it,” she said, handing him a relatively thick book on  _ Paintings and Magic: A Brief History _ . 

“This one,” she held another book. “Suggests our theory is possible and confirms what we’ve thought so far. The assault of spells resulted in something unthinkable but not impossible.”

“I will look over them.”

She nodded, examining some other painting. 

Draco found his eyes unwillingly glancing over Harry’s portrait. It was unchanged, and he felt helpless.

“What will happen to the elections?” Draco asked, tearing his eyes away to face Hermione. 

“It must be pushed back until Harry returns,” she said, confidently. “As for the trial, I believe the culprits of the attack will have to remain at Azkaban until a proper trial can be held. Harry is an important witness.”

“That displeases you,” Draco observed loudly. Hermione had frowned at the mention of a delayed trial. 

“I think Azkaban is horrid,” she said truthfully, her round eyes careful and attentive to Draco’s reaction. “Reforms are due.”

“In what sense?” he asked, slightly surprised. “What makes you think it is not efficient as it is now?”

“Oh, it’s efficient,” she said. “Without a doubt. Yet, the sentencing is too easy. You were there after the war. You of all people should know.”

“Me of all people,” he repeated, and could detect the edge in his own voice as he said it. “Because I deserved to go there myself.”

“No,” she frowned. “Because you saw the innocent Slytherins who were sentenced there on no valid account.”

Draco’s shoulders relaxed. “And the unemployment afterwards. Not about Azkaban, but the injustices Slytherins still face today.”

She nodded. “McGonagall says she’s received an increased number of students demanding a re-sorting after the war. I have no idea if such a thing is possible, but the demand was there.”

“But for the others,” he said, thinking of Blaise. “There is no chance of going back in time and changing their house. It is exceedingly difficult to find any job in the Wizarding World, and since so many are Pureblood there is no chance of seeking employment among Muggles.”

“Precisely,” Hermione said quickly, her eyes blazing. “It must be changed.”

They were quiet for a moment, Hermione’s eyes glazed over as she looked at Draco’s supplies absentmindedly. Draco found his attention drawn to Harry again. 

“Why is he asleep?” he suddenly asked. “Let us say he is trapped, but why has he not moved?”

“Perhaps even if he wasn’t trapped he would be unconscious.”

“Like a coma?”

“I think so,” she said, joining him by the canvas. “We can only wait to see if his condition changes. In the meantime, we should look for spells to draw him out.”

Draco glanced at her. “How would that be possible?”

She frowned and pulled out her wand. “ _ Accio _ Harry.”

Nothing happened. 

“Well,” Draco said after a moment of silence. “ _ Levicorpus _ !”

Nothing. 

Hermione frowned. “ _ Mobilicorpus _ .”

Nothing was working. Draco raked his fingers through his hair. It had been nearly a week since Harry was trapped, and the only progress they made was confirming one of their suspicions, and even with that Draco felt no sense of confidence. 

Hermione sighed. “We’ll figure it out.”

Draco felt a hand on his shoulder, and when he turned Hermione was sending him a gentle smile. 

“It’s  _ Harry _ ,” she said. “If we don’t figure it out, he will somehow get away by himself. He’s like that, you know.”

“Right,” Draco said.

“I wasn’t aware you were fond of him,” she said quietly. 

Draco looked away, towards the portrait. “Fond is a bit of an overstatement.”

“Well,” she cleared her throat, letting go of his shoulder. “He spoke highly of you, and I’m sure he will be glad to know you were helpful throughout all of this.”

“I owe it to him,” Draco said, quietly. “He was kind to me for no reason.”

“There shouldn’t be a reason to be kind to someone,” Hermione said, in that wise tone Draco usually found unnerving.

Now, however, he would accept any reassurance. 

His mind was one plagued with doubt and indecisiveness. While Hermione, Ron, and McGonagall seemed to think there was a way out, Draco was doubtful. 

He knew of Harry’s miraculous track record with evading death, but something so strange and specific like being trapped in a portrait was too bizarre. 

“You can tell Pansy now, you know,” Hermione said as she gathered her jacket to leave. 

Draco led her to the living room, where she pet Astrid for a few moments and admired her feathers. “Kingsley will be releasing a statement today, but I’m certain she’ll appreciate hearing from you first.”

“What will the others say?” Draco asked. “I know they are likely to assume that is all my fault. That I did something to the portrait.”

“Kingsley will clear you of accusations,” Hermione said. “I examined the portrait, there was nothing there to indicate you played a hand.”

“But by the time we suspected the portrait the trace of spells may have worn off.”

Hermione shook her head. “They won’t call you to trial. Ron and I made sure of it.”

“How can you trust me?” he blurted out. “For all you know this could be a plan of mine. I could be conspiring with Lucius-”

Hermione laughed. “Draco. I trust Harry wholeheartedly. And in case you somehow tricked him into trusting you, the stricken expression on your face that day we found him was awfully realistic.”

_ Harry Potter trusting Draco Malfoy.  _ It was all overwhelming, like a sick and horrible prank. 

“I will send Pansy a letter.”

Hermione smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodbye.” 


	19. Chapter 18

Pansy arrived at the Manor within minutes of receiving Draco’s letter. 

“Oh, Draco,” she said, hurrying over to embrace him. “May I see him?”

They stood in the study, Pansy gnawing at her bottom lip. “This is awful. How are you, darling?”

“Well, we got him to shut up,” he said.

Pansy smiled a little. “Really, Draco. I have no idea what went on between you two, but I worry for you. I heard of him going missing but I assumed he was doing Potter things. I can’t believe...well. Anyway. How  _ are _ you?”

“Nothing went on between us,” he said, frowning. “And I’m all right. Can’t say the same for Potter.”

“Don’t try that with me,” she said. “I know the signs of infatuation when I see them.”

“You sound just like Blaise.”

“You’re deflecting. I’m sure Hermione will figure it out in no time,” she said, looping her arm through his elbow. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea.”

They sat on the sofa. Draco was too distracted to speak and Pansy had no idea what to say.

“Well, have you spoken to Narcissa since?” she finally asked. 

Draco gripped his mug. “I hate to worry her. She will rightfully assume I was with him.”

“Well, it  _ is _ worrying. But you owe her the truth.”

“She’ll read of it in the papers,” he said. “She...she doesn’t know.”

Pansy didn’t require clarification. 

* * *

It was two weeks from the incident and still no indication of Harry escaping his trap. By then it was clear their theory was the most reliable. 

Hermione abandoned her work at the Ministry to focus on Harry, and Ron was nervous and worried for her.

“As far as I know magic and research have no dangerous effects on pregnancy,” she said to him sharply.

“Mione,” Ron said quietly, badly attempting to exclude Draco from hearing. “You know what the Mediwitches said. Your condition is abnormal.”

Hermione glared at him violently, and Draco felt uncomfortable overhearing. 

He was forced to floo his mother eventually, when news reached France. 

She had been worried, as Draco had suspected. 

“Come to France,” she said pleadingly. 

“I would only look guilty if I ran away, Mother."

“Be careful, Draco. Without Harry Potter to defend you, I’m afraid of what will come.”

It had been all underwhelming, in the end. 

Draco received a few spiteful letters, but none that triggered his alarm for dark spells. Draco was not in the habit of venturing far from the Manor regardless, so the only difference was not having Potter visit the Manor once or twice a week.

He was absolutely fine. 

Draco read every book lended to him by Hermione, poring over pages and pages of magical theory. He took notes with ink and quill, and kept them safe for his next meeting with Hermione. 

“We’re getting nowhere,” he said, a little after two weeks. 

Hermione frowned. “But you said this was similar to being trapped in mirrors. There are Muggle incidents of such things, accidental magic and stray curses from abandoned mirrors. This has happened before.”

“I know,” he said miserably. “Yet we’re nowhere near finding a spell to release him.”

Hermione was silent. She glanced at the portrait and sighed. “He’s still asleep. It’s so odd.”

When no one was examining the portrait at the Manor, Draco spent his hours drinking and sleeping. He was tired all the time, having no energy to cook or clean the Manor. It was slowly reverting to its condition before Harry demanded having his portrait done. Slowly, Draco remembered how easy it was to lose himself in alcohol and bitter thoughts. 

The Manor was a fort at times, a defensive lair against evil spells and dark magic. Why had he left in the first place? Was Harry once so compelling as to convince Draco he was worthy of venturing out? 

Because Draco had no intention of being so swayed again. Look at what happened when he let himself forget. 

The Manor’s darkness was engulfing. It was addicting to sit on the sofa and do nothing but read and drink. Sketching was out of the question. His fingers only knew how to draw one thing, how to paint with one set of colors, the curve of  _ that  _ nose, the shadows under  _ those  _ green eyes. Brilliant green eyes.

The muscles of his fingers were too familiar with the process. It would take them time to forget. 

Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to forget. 

Charcoal stained his fingertips, but he only sketched for a few minutes and then threw the pages into the fireplace. 

_ “Incendio” _ . 

The Ministry issued a statement stalling the elections, and the papers never tired of printing Harry’s face on every cover. 

Draco was forced to confront it every morning, and he was sick of the gnawing feeling in his stomach every time.

_ Incendio, incendio, incendio. _

Nothing helped. Drinking only made his head ache and his stomach coil. The Manor was half renovated and half covered in dust. The dust of perhaps a decade, settled onto furniture and untouched. 

The study’s door remained shut at all times when not in use. Draco was terrified of walking past and finding the portrait vacant, only the painted background present. 

Every day was a possibility of something going wrong. Everyday could be the day when Hermione would stop visiting, and the world would move on without Potter.

What would Draco do then, if Potter was gone for good? Leave the portrait in his study and  _ move on _ ? 

He was exhausted of the thought. 

It was impossible to imagine not reaching a conclusion.

“You need to get out of here,” Pansy implored one afternoon. “Go to Diagon Alley, visit your mother in France. William and I might take a trip to Cannes this weekend. You can come with us.”

“Third-wheeling is the last thing I want to do.”

“I can cancel the trip,” she said after a while. “I’m worried for you. You said you had no feelings for him, but you’re  _ lying _ .”

Draco shut his eyes, only thinking of when he could go to bed and get through another day. “Nonsense.”

She was quiet for a moment, only standing to make tea. 

“Blaise was asking about you,” she said gently. “I think you should speak to him.”

He frowned. “About what?”

“You know what,” she said. “You can have other friends, you know.”

“How could I?” he said with a dramatic air. “Who could amount to your standing?”

She smiled. “Well, regardless whether you have feelings for Potter or not I’m certain he felt something for you. How could anyone resist your charm?”

Draco scoffed, but he felt his lips form a smile. “Yes, out of all the Weasleys he would settle for me.”

She placed a hand on his. “He is lucky to gain your worries and cares for him, you know.”

Blaise was with her the next time she visited. 

By then it had been nearly a month of no clues, and no change. Draco was on edge, neither painting nor reading. He only stayed sober long enough for Hermione’s ceaseless visits, her baby’s bump growing larger and more visible by the day. 

“How are you?” Blaise asked, and then surprised Draco by embracing him warmly. “You look awfully pale, Malfoy.”

“Zabini,” Draco said drily, glancing at Pansy sharply. “What a pleasure.”

“Your hair is too long.”

Draco glared, and pushed him off. 

“All right,” Pansy interjected. “Blaise only wanted to see you were getting by.”

“Barely,” Draco provided.

“I can see.” Blaise eyed the bottles littering the living room.

The look was familiar, a mirrored one of surprise or interest that was evident on Hermione’s face that same morning.

Draco waved his hand. “Take what you like.”

“Very kind,” Blaise swooped his arm over the table and selected a bottle of bourbon. “Thank you.”

The trio were quiet for a moment. Draco felt horrible. He could tell this was Pansy’s desperate attempt at cheering him up, but she hadn’t accounted for the fact that perhaps Draco was still unsure of what to do with Blaise. He was too tall and too present in the living room. His aura took up too much room, and Draco felt suffocated by the memory of his words. 

Perhaps of the kiss, as well, and the feeling of being shoved against a library door. It had been months since they last saw one another, and Draco felt he was being pathetic. 

Still, his memory was sharp. 

“Well,” Pansy began. 

“Well,” Draco echoed. “How is William and the wedding preparations?”

“Lovely,” she smiled. “But we’re here for you, Draco.”

“No one has died,” Draco said, feeling painfully sorry for himself. “He’s still in  _ there _ .”

Blaise had been nursing his glass of bourbon, eyeing the living room’s furniture. He glanced at Draco then.

It all felt like a memory, like the nights the three of them spent drinking smuggled rum in the Slytherin common room well past curfew. 

“Let’s see,” Blaise said, standing.

“I’m sick of seeing it,” Draco said, truthfully and earnestly. 

Blaise stepped over Draco’s extended legs, which had been kicked onto the coffee table, and moved towards the study. “I haven’t seen it once.”

Draco reluctantly joined Pansy and Blaise at the study. 

There it was, the same portrait, unchanged.

“Ah,” was Blaise's reaction. “Your artistic capabilities are evident.”

Draco felt it wasn’t the right time for compliments. 

“It’s strange,” Pansy said gently. “Even after all this time.”

“He doesn’t move?” Blaise bent closer to the portrait, eyes scanning curiously. “You could say anything to him and he wouldn’t move.”

“He’s most likely in a coma,” Draco said.

“Have you not professed your love, then?” Blaise asked. “Oh, Potter you drive me  _ mad _ .”

Pansy snickered. Draco thought she was being  _ cruel _ .

“I heard muggles play these whale sounds to wake up people in comas,” Blaise went on. “Apparently it works.”

“We shall have Pansy sing to him, then.”

There was a sharp stinging hex sent to his arm, and Draco no longer felt so horrid.

Blaise glanced at the other paintings in the room. “Jokes aside, you’ve been doing well with painting.”

“Not for a while now,” Draco said truthfully. 

He was about to suggest returning to the living room, because Harry’s motionless image was growing more harrowing by the second, but by then Hermione was calling his name.

“In the study,” he called back.

“Oh,” she said upon entry. “Sorry, I had no idea you had people over. Pansy, it’s nice seeing you again.”

She glanced at Zabini. “Hello.”

Blaise smiled. “Hello.”

“I wanted to run an idea by you,” Hermione glanced at Draco. “Would it be all right if I spoke to Zabini for a moment first?”

“Of course,” Draco said, but he was instantly intrigued. “We’ll leave you the study.”

By the time they were finished, Blaise and Pansy decided to take their leave. 

Pansy pressed a kiss to his cheek. “It’ll work out.”

He nodded.

Blaise only said goodbye before disappearing through the fireplace. 

“I’m sure you’re curious as to why I spoke to Zabini,” Hermione began. She eyed the living room’s mess for a moment, before glancing at Draco.

He cleared the bottles with a wave of his wand. “You’ll have to excuse the mess.”

“It’s understandable, Draco.”

“No,” he said. “There’s nothing about it that is nearly comprehensible.”

She looked away towards the fire. “I’m setting up a department for Azkaban reforms and injustices towards Slytherins. I thought Blaise would be interested in a permanent position.”

“Oh,” Draco was surprised, but his interests were evidently piqued. “I’m sure he was eager to lend a hand.”

“Yes,” she smiled. “He was. Now, about Harry.”

She gestured for permission to sit on the sofa.

“Of course,” he said, and joined her by a nearby armchair. “Go on.”

“Only it’s been nearly a month,” she said, her voice sounding strained. “I can’t help but think...well, I worry for him of course. As for the rest of the Wizarding World there’s demand for an explanation. Talks of sending the portrait to a lab or curse-breaker. I tried my best to fix things before it would get to that point but it seems this is out of our breadth.”

“Would it be terrible?” Draco asked, though the look on Hermione’s face was indication enough. Anyway, the idea of it made him sick. He hated having the portrait around, but to have it taken from him was far more unsettling. 

“Cursed pieces are abandoned constantly,” she said. “There’s always something new coming in and out. Yes, Harry’s case would be prioritized but only for perhaps another month until something bigger rolls around. By then it would be a paperwork nightmare to bring him back here.”

_ Him _ , as though Harry was still an animate object and not a still image trapped between paint and canvas. 

“But you said you had an idea?” Draco pressed, because Hermione was not one to back down easily. He knew this now, because they spent hours together in that study. 

She winced. “A horrible one, I think. We can stall the inquiry for perhaps a week. Is there a way you can alter the painting? To make it appear as though there has been a change? If we bring something hopeful they may consider leaving the portrait with us.”

“Lie to the Minister of Magic,” Draco’s lips curled. “Granger, I must say I’m impressed.”

Her cheeks colored. “We’d be lying for a good reason.”

Draco stood and walked towards the study, knowing without turning his head that she would follow. 

He lifted his paint palette which he hadn’t touched since the night of Harry’s disappearance. He took a minute to mix together a color that would blend with his hair, and then applied a small stroke of it over the canvas. 

“What kind of change are you thinking of?” he asked, as they watched the wet paint perform normally on the canvas. 

Hermione was frowning. “I’m not sure. Perhaps you could manipulate his expression. Something small but noteworthy.”

“I’ll think it over tonight,” he said. “I’ll start painting tomorrow.”

Hermione seemed to visibly deflate. “Thank you, that would work perfectly.”

“Of course,” he said, glancing at the portrait. Unchanged but for the shining swipe of dark brown. 

Hermione returned home to Ron, and Draco was left to stare at the portrait in contemplation. 

“If only you hadn’t been…” his voice trailed. There was nothing Harry could’ve done to alter his situation. “If only you weren’t so brave then.”

“Could you do that again? Be brave again and  _ do _ something because Hermione is sick with worry that she’s turning Slytherin.” 

He wondered what he could possibly do to alter the painting without making it seem obvious. It was too much, resorting to lying and fabrication. He understood why, but nonetheless it was too much and too unfair. 

“ _ Please _ .”

It turned out Draco had no reason to worry over what he would have to do to alter the painting. The next morning, he walked into the study half asleep to find the portrait had already changed itself.

No need for lies or fabrication.


	20. Chapter 19

Hermione, Ron, and Draco faced the portrait wordlessly. 

There it was, a small change in Harry’s expression.

A crease between his brows, vague but noticeable. 

“You didn’t do this?”

“No,” Draco reached out and swiped his finger over the canvas. “The paint wouldn’t have dried overnight. Look how this part is still wet from last night.”

Ron was frowning. “How is this possible?”

“People in comas move all the time,” Hermione said. “We would be able to evaluate his brain activity if he wasn’t in the portrait.”

Draco thought it over. “What does it mean?”

“Nothing to celebrate yet,” she frowned. “But good enough for Shacklebolt's lot.”

“Good,” Draco said. “That’s good.”

“It’s saving us time,” she said skeptically. “But not for a long time. We need something stronger than this.”

“He needs to wake up,” Draco suggested. 

Hermione nodded. “Since we know he’s somewhat still in there, perhaps some healers could be of help. I’ll contact St. Mungo’s.”

“I’ll notify Shacklebolt,” Ron said. “I suppose it’s the least I could do.”

Hermione smiled, finally. “There’s  _ hope _ .”

Draco wasn’t sure, but he liked to hear it from her. 

It didn’t make matters easier, however. 

Narcissa was still worried sick, and Ron was struggling with work. 

“We’ve yet to understand how the attackers managed to surpass our security,” he said that same evening, only now they were gathered away from the canvas, by the fire.

Draco was having Muggle Chinese takeout in his living room with Ron and Hermione and it was everything but normal. 

“It’s an inside job,” Hermione filled in. “Ron won’t accept it.”

“I  _ accept  _ it,” Ron said, stabbing his chopsticks into a bowl of sticky rice. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

“It makes sense that way,” was Draco’s response. “You should ask about, form a list of suspects.”

“I suggested the same thing,” said Hermione, a smile on her lips. 

Draco increasingly found they had more things in common than he could have ever imagined. It was the similarity in thoughts, in behavior, in principle. Of course, he was nowhere near as clever, moral, or quick in thought. Yet he found comfort in knowing there was something he could share with Hermione, that they could, after all that passed between them, find common ground.

* * *

Then there was the matter of the elections, because no one had thought it would take  _ this  _ long to bring Harry back and it was impossible for Shaklebolt to go on without raising alarm over integrity and political morality. 

“Hermione, a Minister,” Ron said brightly, an arm loose around Hermione’s waist. They were gathered around Draco’s kitchen table after spending the Sunday afternoon flipping through books on curse breaking. 

“If only she’d marry me so I could say I was married to a Minister.”

Hermione flushed and took his arm from her waist. She glanced at Draco carefully. “Shacklebolt suggested it. I’m not sure it’s the right time. Harry could be back any moment now.”

Harry  _ could _ be back, Draco thought. His expression had changed once, but the Healers Hermione met with at St. Mungo’s thought that there was hope. A change of expression, or movement was normal. The more changes the better, but Harry remained frowning. 

For a moment Draco was both hurt and angry.

Hermione taking Harry’s role as Minister would solidify the general opinion that Harry was truly gone. The trials were over, the case was nearly closed. The only thing keeping Draco hopeful was the slight change in Harry’s expression.

If Hermione was Minister, what would Harry return to?

What would Draco have to hold on to but the portrait?

Yet he knew, hurt and feelings aside, that Hermione was fit for the role. He knew it as he recalled Harry’s trepidations over being Minister. He knew it as he recalled his own initial opinion on the matter.

Now, however, Harry was motionless as ever.

He was nothing like the animated Wizard who rejected office work. He was, afterall, the perfect painting subject.

Draco didn’t like it. He hated all of it. The gloom of the Manor despite the warmer season was reflective of his mood.

“He’ll be back,” Draco spoke finally. “But we don’t know when. I’d rather see you be Minister than see Shacklebolt extend his term.”

“Shacklebolt is good,” Hermione said, with a gentle smile.

“He’s too old,” was Ron and Draco’s consensus. 

Draco elaborated. “While he’s made changes, I think the war is still fresh on his mind. As it is with all of us. Yet you see things more hopefully. You’ve already started working on reforms. There’s no person better fit for the role.”

“Even Harry?” she teased.

Draco flushed. “We both know he’s too restless. Besides, I think he deserves a break from all his heroic actions. The role as Minister would be too eventless for him. He knows all the galas and charity events he would have to attend. And anyway, he’s far from diplomatic.”

Hermione smiled, and nodded. “He wouldn’t mind, then?”

“Of course not,” Ron kissed her temple. 

Draco’s short speech reminded him of Harry so violently it caused a sharp pain in his chest. To think of him constantly was beginning to be normal, to speak of him and utter his name out loud still caused a great deal of discomfort. 

He thought of him relentlessly, day after day from the moment he was gone, that he could hardly imagine what it would be like to see him again.

The idea of him had altered and twisted into a version of Harry that was nonexistent. 

Perhaps everything Draco knew was wrong, only a manifestation of endless wonder.

“You’re turning out quite an achiever yourself,” Hermione was saying, turning to her boyfriend. “Draco, Ron found the mole.”

“That and being Minister are completely different things,” Ron said, smiling. “And without your pestering I would never have found the bullocks to arrest Anderson.” 

Hermione was glowing radiantly, and while Draco would have normally blanched at their unapologetically open display of affection, he managed to look away without an enormous sense of envy this time. 

“I gather a trial will soon follow?” Draco asked, eventually. 

“A quick one,” Ron said. “There’s too much evidence.”

“Quick trials will soon be a thing of the past,” Hermione began to explain. “With the reforms it won’t be so easy to cast someone to Azkaban.”

“Efficiency does not have to come at the cost of speed,” Draco said. “Quick trials are essential, I think. The Ministry was wrong with method and prejudice.”

Hermione looked at him curiously, but with a relieved smile. “You’re right. Perhaps I’m only afraid of criticism. I can count on you for advice, then?”

“I’m far from qualified,” was Draco’s humble and surprised reply, but it pleased him.

Everything seemed to surprise him.

Ron’s quick capture of the mole was somewhat a surprise, but not as big as how quick he was at befriending Draco. Draco always thought Harry’s friends would detest him for as long as he was alive, and even long after he was burried, their memories from Hogwarts had surely not faded. He thought even if Harry ever dared to be his friend, that this would stop him, because Harry’s family were his friends. It all depended on the Weasleys, and Granger, and Lovegood. 

Yet Ron spoke to him without a hint of malice. He’d taken one good look at Draco’s pale and stricken face when they found the portrait, and then it was ‘mate’ this and ‘hullo’ that. 

Draco thought he would hate it regardless, that being friends with Potter’s lot was the last thing he would enjoy. 

Yet there was something comforting about recognizing Ron’s handwriting on quick short notes when delivered by owls. Or the constant presence of Hermione at the Manor, particularly at the study. 

She spoke of Draco seeing her baby, of babysitting and sharing responsibilities with Harry, Luna, or Ginny. 

He understood, suddenly and jarringly, why Harry was so keen to maintain his friendships. That in a world where Harry and Draco were both lacking in relations, the Weasleys and Grangers of the world felt like breathing havens. 

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Hermione said, as they were standing to floo out of the Manor. “Let’s say goodbye to Harry.”

Draco wanted to say it was ridiculous. What did it matter if they said goodbye to Harry? As if he would suddenly open his eyes. As if weeks of spending hours by the portrait wouldn’t be enough to have him back. 

Yet, he understood and complied. 

Hermione led the way with the gentle tread of her feet across the floorboards. 

The door to the study creaked, and Draco caught a whiff of the study before they set foot inside. It was all dark wood and that sweet scent of old and frayed leather-bound books, because Draco never bothered with preservation spells.

It hardly smelled like paint or turpentine anymore, and Draco was somewhat glad for it. 

Hermione reached the canvas first, pressing her fingers over the new crease between Harry’s brows. 

“I’m running for Minister,” she said quietly. “I do hope you’re okay with that. Ron found the man who did this. We’ll send him to Azkaban." She paused. Well, good night.”

Ron held her hand. “Miss you, mate.”

Hermione turned to look at Draco. “We’ll head home. Thank you for everything.”

Draco wanted to say  _ I’ve done nothing _ . He smiled instead, a weak and false twist of his lips. 

They were gone, and Draco was alone with Harry. Again. 

“Hermione said everything that could be said,” Draco muttered quietly. “Ron too, I suppose. I thought maybe I would be angry that she’s running for Minister, but I think it’s the most logical and practical thing we’ve done since you left. Or disappeared. Whatever it is.”

He paused.

“Do something else,” he entreated. “Another frown, or a smile or something. Merlin, Potter.”

His heart was beating wildly in his chest. “Anything is better than nothing. Wake up. I know it may seem like we’ve moved on and perhaps Hermione and Ron are doing fine, but I’m...I’m not. I’m not doing fine. I’m far from fine. I’m actually quite the opposite of fine. Only, if you wake up then perhaps I’ll sleep properly again. Just to know you’re not constantly in my study would be quite assuring.”

It was quiet, but Draco expected nothing else from a stubborn git.

“So, there’s that,” he said. “It would be one less burden. And anyway, it’s quite selfish of you to disappear on Hermione and Ron like that. You know Hermione’s expecting, and her pregnancy hasn’t been easy.”

There, he used guilt to persuade and coerce. 

Surely, Harry would open his eyes or lips to defend himself. 

Nothing. 

“Fine, then,” Draco whispered. “Salazar, I’ve lost my mind. If only you hadn’t changed, perhaps I’d be gaining parts of my sanity back but it seems I’m only obsessing more now. Monitoring you constantly. Do you know how frustrating it is to look at your face all day?”

Draco looked away from the canvas, and then back again. “Wake up.” 

Then he turned and went to bed, but sleep was fleeting and rare these days. 


	21. Chapter 20

Harry’s expression changed again, from frowning, to a placid and calm expression. 

Then the next day, it seemed he’d tilted his head. The next, it was a tug of his lips.

The changes progressed regularly, and Hermione brought in Healers to observe.

Draco left them the study, nervous and restless. He paced the Manor, fixing peeling wallpapers or removing menacing doxies. He did everything to distract himself.

The Healers stayed, monitoring the portrait in regular shifts. 

Slowly, they took over the Manor. They were having lunch in the kitchen, or resting in the living room.

Finally, Draco cleaned out the guest room on the ground floor. The dust from the old, moth-eaten curtains vanished, the sheets on the bed were replaced, the heating and cooling charms restored, the windows polished, the broken or injured furniture pieced together. Draco spent hours in that room, making sure it was everything it wasn’t before, only for an excuse not to be in there when it happened. Not to see the portrait or the Healers in their neat and clean robes.

It sickened him slightly, that there were so many in and out of his home. It felt all too familiar, like it had back then. His hands shook each time someone glanced at him, or asked him for directions, or if they could have tea. 

The guest room was cleaned, and then they were having regular naps there. 

Draco found there was too much to do, and moved on to the upper floors where he would disappear for hours on end.

Hermione found him once, searching for cursed objects and a locked trunk.

_ “Alohomora,” _ he said, pointing his wand.

The trunk swung open, but it only contained old letters and journals from long deceased Malfoys, he assumed. 

“There you are,” she said. “I was looking for you.”

Draco glanced at her briefly. He hadn’t spoken to her much since she called the Healers. He knew why she’d done it, but he blamed her regardless. 

“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” she said gently. “I haven’t seen you much.”

He locked the trunk again, and sighed as he leaned against the wall of the spare room. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“Well,” she cleared her throat. “I think we’re getting somewhere.”

Draco stared at her. “Oh.”

“Yes,” she leaned against the wall next to him. “Oh.”

“Well, the Healers have been useful then.”

“Yes,” she smiled. “How stubborn we were to think we could help him by ourselves.”

“What is it then?” he asked.

“He’s awake,” she said gently. “He’s opened his eyes, Draco.”

Draco chest constricted. “What are you doing here, then?”

She laughed. “He’s not out yet, is he? I came to let you know. Come with me. I think perhaps he can hear now. He can respond. We can help him, draw him out in a way.”

Draco felt faint. His heart fell to his stomach, his fingers curled, his teeth clenched in his jaw. All the usual symptoms of tension and stress of an individual incapable of forming a reaction or acceptable response.

“Draco?”

“Right,” he said, breathing sharply. “All right.”

He had thought of this moment endlessly, and helplessly. Thought of it and pictured it in his head, a happy and sweet conclusion, before wiping it from his mind to avoid cursing himself. Only out of fear that if he wished it too hard then it would become impossible to realize. 

He followed Hermione down the stairs and into the study. Most of the healers had gone back to St. Mungo’s, their services no longer required. However, two remained standing on either side of the canvas, running through data and surveying spells.

“He’s perfectly fine,” one of them said upon spotting Hermione and Draco.

Harry’s portrait had reverted back to its original state, except this time it appeared as though a moving portrait. Harry’s eyes moved, and then found Draco.

It was jarring to meet his eyes, and Draco felt flushed and embarrassed for no reason. He looked away, to the Healers, his heart thudding in his chest. 

“What now?” he asked quietly.

“We’ll try to draw him out. Hermione?”

Hermione stepped forward, and together they began casting spells that Draco had never heard of before, in hopes that one would stick. 

In his efforts to remove himself from the Healers’ company, he had stopped being helpful. Instead, Hermione had spent hours with the Healers, exchanging ideas and theories.

Now, their wands were drawn and pointed, blinding light streaming towards the canvas.

Later, Draco learned it was a common spell used to retrieve Muggles trapped in mirrors, or other accidental occurrences of trapping spells. He recalled a similar situation at the end of the war, a cruel punishment for a Death Eater who had betrayed Voldemort in some way or another. It had been impossible to remove him from a sealed water basin. They had failed to retrieve him in time. 

Hermione and the Healers severed the protection spell cast against the canvas, withdrawing the curse which had been reflected that terrible night, and then it was quiet, and Harry was tumbling out the canvas as though pushed by an invisible and powerful force.

It all happened too quickly. Hermione grasped Harry as he fell to his knees, weak and exhausted. He was whisked away to St. Mungo’s, first with the Healers, and then Hermione following suit.

“Come with me,” she said to Draco, grasping his hand.

“I can’t,” he said. “I shouldn’t. He wouldn’t want me there. You should go.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” she said, but she seemed desperate and quickly let him go. 

“I’ll owl Ron,” was Draco’s strained response.

She hugged him, quickly and alarmingly. “Thank you, Draco.”

It was quiet, the Manor still. The silence rang in his ear, like static. 

Draco glanced at the portrait, and it looked just as it did moments before the attack. The familiar twist of his neck, the same green eyes, the still form of Harry’s portrait. 

It was far too quiet, but he moved to the living room and owled Ron as promised.

His chest felt heavy and constrained, but Draco felt relief. Finally, it was over. 

* * *

The papers went wild upon hearing the news of Potter’s return. Pansy sent him a bottle of wine and a sweet note inviting him to tea. 

It was all too much.

Potter had recovered quickly, wrote The Prophet. He spent his days at Grimmauld Place, shut out and occupied with recuperating. There was only one image of him, walking away from St. Mungo’s. He seemed pale, but by far healthier than the man who had stumbled out of Draco’s canvas. 

Draco knew from Hermione’s letters and Ron’s rushed notes that he was spending time with his friends and family. That he was doing all right, according to Hermione, and that he asked of Draco.

Draco tucked the letters and notes away, mulling over his thoughts and questioning what to do with himself now that Potter was back and no cursed portrait was at the center of his mind. 

He’d sent the portrait to the Ministry of Magic. It was a donation of sorts. The portrait was out of the Manor for good, and Draco was glad to get rid of it regardless. 

The study was as it was before, and slowly he began to paint again. It smelled like turpentine and oil again, like Harry, and that sleepless night before he was trapped. 

It was nearly normal at the Manor until he received a sealed letter from the Wizengamot, and Draco felt a sense of dread pool in his stomach. It seemed impossible to rid himself of Harry’s presence, that he finally understood the consequences of being surrounded by him and his effects. 

It was this. It was danger and relentless provocation. 

“It’s simply a formality,” Hermione said over the floo once he managed to contact her. “Harry will be there to acquit you, I’m sure he’ll manage to win them over to your side.

“Will you be there, as Minister?”

She flushed. “It hasn’t been made official yet. I’m afraid you’ll have to face Shacklebolt, but I’m certain you can prove your innocence.”

Potter’s return brought along several changes. The stalling of the elections was one of them, and the retrials was another. 

Draco had read about a trial's usual proceedings thoroughly. He was prepared, especially with the recommendations provided to him by Hermione. Yet naturally he felt a nervous flutter in his stomach the night before the hearing. Sleepless, he wandered aimlessly down the stairs in an effort to calm his mind. He prepared a relaxing cup of tea with a dash of dreamless potion, and walked to the study while his tea was still hot. 

It was instinctive, but there was no Potter’s portrait, only a half-finished painting of a childhood memory. 

In the morning, he was dressed and ready too early. Nervously, he paced the living room. The Manor was slowly coming together with the help of Pansy’s advice and Draco’s desperate need to occupy his hands and thoughts. He knew there was nothing to fear, that he was innocent of all suspicions and accusations. 

Yet, he knew that Hermione had not yet taken her seat as Minister. That regardless of her joint department with Blaise, there were no new reforms. 

Draco arrived via floo, landing carefully as he could at the center of the Ministry. He noticed the flash of several cameras, and dreaded his mother’s anxious letter. 

The trial was held at a large court, familiar to Draco. Wizards and witches filled every seat, their hushed speech and gazing eyes were intimidating and sickening. 

Draco found his seat, and glancing across the room found Harry. His hair was arranged in its usual mess, his robes ordinary and plain. His expression was unwavering and stiff. Draco looked away, before he was noticed. It failed to escape him, how long it had been since he had last seen Harry. He tried not to dwell on the thought. 

The Chief Warlock was short and stern. Her robes were immaculate, and even from a distance Draco could admire her composed appearance as she held her wand to her throat, and began the proceedings. 

The wizards suspected of attacking Potter were called in, and stood facing the rest of the court as their crimes were read out loud to the rest of the wizarding world. There was enough proof, the Main Warlock stated, that no statement would be needed to confirm their guilt. They were sentenced to life at Azkaban, and ushered out as quickly as they arrived. 

Next, was the turn of witnesses. Pansy was not required to be present, and Draco was grateful for it. His heart was thudding in his chest violently as it was, and he only half-listened as Ron Weasley stood at the center of the room and recited the many statements he gathered from his investigation. 

Finally, Draco, Harry, Ron, and a handful of other wizards and witches who had volunteered to combat the assailants were called to the front of the room. The Aurors and particularly the mole were to be dealt with separately. 

As each name was called, a witch called out the list of spells cast from their wands. This took the longest time, Draco thought.

As he stood in the middle of the room, he concentrated his eyes to the walls of the room, unable to look at the curious faces that had no problem with eyeing him. He knew how this would look to anyone with a sane mind, he could hardly blame the staring. 

“Draco Malfoy,” the witch began. “On the night of the ceremony cast the following spells and curses…”

When the witch completed her task the court fell silent, and Shacklebolt rose to his feet.

He dismissed everyone but Potter and Draco, who stood tense and rigid while everyone looked on.

“Malfoy,” Shakelbolt said calmly but firmly. “You are aware of the restrictions held on former Death Eaters yet you cast the Cruciatus curse on the night of the event. What was the reason for your actions?”

Draco looked at Potter, and found him frowning at Shacklebolt as though he’d grown another head. 

“It was in defense of Harry Potter,” Draco said, attempting to match Shacklebolt’s calm voice, and nearly collapsing with nerves.

“You were invited to the ceremony as a guest,” Shacklebolt continued, dismissing him. “What is your relationship to Potter?”

Draco flushed. “I painted his portrait.”

Shacklebolt seemed unconvinced. “Several months before the event in question, you received a sum of one million galleons transferred to your Gringotts account by the same Harry Potter. That sounds too generous for a portrait, no?” 

There was an animated whisper across the court before they were ordered to silence. 

“It was the price we deemed fair,” Potter spoke up.

“I was addressing Malfoy,” Shacklebolt said.

“I was the one who transferred the money,” Potter replied stubbornly. “It was my money and I have every right to spend it as I wish.”

“Of course,” Shacklebolt turned to look at Potter. “Though a million galleons is excessive and you were aware it would trigger an alarm in our system.”

“We addressed that,” Potter said between gritted teeth. “Why is this relevant now?” 

At this, he turned to the Chief Warlock, who raised her arm. “Minister of Magic may continue.”

Potter was angry now, Draco noticed. His eyes were electric, his skin tinted red, and a crease formed between his brows. 

“It is relevant, because there was another transfer to Malfoy’s account recently,” Shacklebolt continued. “With the events that took place at the ceremony, we found it questionable and suspicious.”

Draco, confused, turned to look at Potter expectedly. “What transfer?” he asked quietly.

Potter looked at him, and then turned to Shacklebolt. “It was for his services to repair the damage of the portrait he worked diligently to complete for several months. There is nothing odd or suspicious about these transfers.”

“So you can guarantee that your relationship to Malfoy is strictly professional?”

“Yes,” Potter looked at Draco and flushed before quickly averting his eyes. “I can confirm that.”

Shacklebolt nodded at Draco. “And you, Malfoy?”

Draco only thought that it had been months since he had spoken to Harry. That the last time he saw him he had been pale and hardly functioning. That before that, he had been gentle and kind. He recalled the way he had grazed his skin, at the way he had spoken of his character and looks. 

He thought of Harry standing by the mysterious tall man at the ceremony, all those months ago now, who had touched him, and the feeling of pain and nausea that engulfed him each time he thought of Potter with that man.

He thought of how much he had missed him, that seeing him now after obsessing over his return was nerve wracking and cruel. For a moment, he found it disappointing and anti-climatic that this was how they would meet, after so long. 

“Of course,” Draco said. 

Shacklebolt was silent, and turned away for a moment. 

“Regardless,” he went on, “your use of the Cruciatus curse is troubling considering your past. Any objections to the increase of restrictions and surveillance on Draco Malfoy?”

Draco felt red and heated as the court whispered. Several hands were raised in objection, though it didn’t matter, because Potter stepped forward in fury. 

“This is not a matter to debate,” he said loudly and sharply. Though it was obvious he was addressing Shacklebolt and the Chief Warlock, Potter’s eyes skimmed the crowd as well. “May I speak in his defense?”

“Actually, you may be gone,” the Minister stated firmly, and turned to the Chief Warlock. 

She looked between the three men. “Dismissed. Potter, go on.”

“Draco Malfoy secluded himself in his Manor for nearly a decade,” he began. “So much so that when I met him early this year he was a quiet and withdrawn man, and only spoke when provoked. He spent his time honing his talents as a painter, and currently has a long list of waiting clients. Then following the events of the ceremony, he stood by Hermione and lended his time and home to help me. The Draco Malfoy you met at the end of the war was a young boy. A man stands before you, with better work ethic than the employees of the Ministry of Magic and I know that first-hand.”

“He’s biased,” Shacklebolt said, addressing the room. 

“No,” Potter said, and the frown on his face eased. “Anyone familiar with him can attest that I speak objectively. Is it so hard to believe that people change?”

“Yes, we’ve lost too many to make such sacrifices.”

“You live in constant fear of the repetition of our past,” Potter said swiftly. “That is no way to advance our people.”

A shocked silence ensued, and then hurried whispers and curious glances exchanged. 

Shacklebolt finally spoke again. “Perhaps I’m growing too old for my position.”

Draco, speechless at Potter’s sudden declarations could hardly think of a word to say, though he knew no one would demand a statement from him soon. 

“Is it true?” the Chief Warlock asked. “That you have taken up painting as a career?”

“Yes,” Draco said. 

“And could you provide evidence via owl?”

“Certainly,” Draco confirmed. “I could deliver copies of several business propositions.”

“That would be sufficient.”

“He is still guilty of using an unspeakable. Any other wizard would be held accountable for it,” Shacklebolt reminded the court. 

“Yes,” the Chief Warlock agreed. “But it was in self-defense, and we know the men who attacked Harry Potter used spells far more dangerous than a Crucio. Besides, I hardly think it fair to impose further restrictions on the man so many describe as secluded.”

Draco could hardly imagine anyone speaking in his defense, and was severely reminded of Potter’s influence. 

“Surveillance will be strict for two weeks, and avoid using any offensive spells. Court dismissed, case closed.”

Draco hardly registered what had gone on, how he’d been let go with hardly any punishment. He saw Potter smile, and speak softly to Shacklebolt for a moment. Someone pushed a business card into Draco’s hand, and said something nice about his portrait. 

“Thank you,” though Draco was unaware of what had been said.

Potter found him dazed and confused. 

“You haven’t come to see me.”

Draco found no words were adequate for a response. He was staring, baffled by Harry’s confrontation. 

Harry swayed, and it took a moment for Draco to reach out and stabilize him. 

“You’re still unwell.”

Harry eased his hand off, and they walked out of the room and into the emptying hall. “You would know if you had visited.”

“I was giving you space.”

“I never asked for space,” Harry said, and then he looked at him like he hardly recognized him, and Draco knew why he had stayed away and it was because of those eyes, and those lips, and that unmanageable hair. 

Harry was far out of his reach, whether trapped in a portrait or otherwise. 


	22. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I'm afraid (????) to say this is the last full-length chapter. Next one is sort of an epilogue. I hope that isn't too disappointing and that the ending is satisfying to most. I felt extending it further would only stretch it out without good reason. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

It was true, because then Harry was all over the papers, and Draco felt knowing him had been a lucid dream. 

Hermione was voted Minister of Magic at the last minute, and gave birth shortly after. Draco sent her a hand-crafted baby mobile, threaded with precious stones which were charmed to reflect playful colors across the nursery. She thanked him profusely, and invited him to see it. 

Her invitation sat unanswered for a few hours. Draco sensed a binding fear of seeing Harry again, as if he’d been cursed with  _ stupefy _ . It was ridiculous, he knew, because what did it matter if Harry was there as he should be. As he was  _ Godfather _ .

He plucked his courage and took the floo to the newly constructed two-story house. It was small, compared to the Burrow or Manor, but Draco was charmed with it. He said nothing, and only stepped through the door to be greeted warmly by the newly made parents. Hermione’s hair framed her radiant face wonderfully, and he caught a whiff of her brilliant shampoo as she pressed him to her side. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Rose was asleep, so they tiptoed their way to the nursery, which cast a twinkle of pink shadows across the yellow walls.

“It’s lovely,” Hermione said to him, with a smile. “Ron thinks so too. He was captivated by it, were you not?”

Ron grinned, peering over the crib to stare at his daughter. She was so small, Draco thought. He could hardly believe she had been the bump which caused Hermione incessant back pains and emergency visits to the hospital. “It turned orange yesterday, like my hair.”

Draco suppressed a grin. “It was nothing, really.”

Hermione squeezed his hand. “It’s so good to see you again.”

He felt sick to his stomach. “I should have written sooner.”

“Nonsense,” she shook her head. “I know you’ve been busy.”

_ Not busy enough _ , he thought to himself.

They tiptoed out of the room and Ron made tea as they spoke quietly in the living room. Hermione and Ron had decorated it to mimic what Draco assumed was the Gryffindor common room. Or perhaps the Burrow. Everything was warmed toned, from the worn out leather sofa to the colorful rug and the beige colored walls. Moving pictures decorated the fireplace, along with unique trinkets and snow globes. 

They spoke quietly of Draco’s growing list of clients. 

“Ever since Harry’s retirement,” Hermione observed, and Draco pretended to be surprised, as if he hadn’t read all about it for days on end. “I’ve heard you’ve gathered an admirable following.”

It seemed Harry’s retirement meant long-term seclusion, and attention gravitated towards Draco’s work.

“So much,” Hermione remarked. “I heard you’ve grown quite selective. As you should be.”

Draco smiled. “I choose what I would like to paint.”

Then they spoke of painters and artworks, while Ron attempted to follow but soon lost interest and went to stare at his baby through a Muggle contraption he learned was called a baby monitor.

They spoke of visiting the Louvre over the spring, when Rose would hopefully be old enough to travel. Then Hermione pulled out a coffee table book of impressionists and neoclassicism. They spoke of  Bouguereau , and the paintings they would like to see at Musée d'Orsay. It was exciting, Draco thought, to talk of the paintings he learned with someone in person. Someone like Hermione, who he had thought he would never speak to again after they had solved their problem with Potter’s portrait. Yet, they spoke for what felt like ages, of painting and art and museums. For the first time he could explain to someone what he tried to emulate in his work, and they understood him perfectly. 

Finally, he noticed he had overstayed and took the floo home. Not before he was embraced by Ron and Hermione, and sent off with Molly’s freshly-baked muffins. 

Not once had they mentioned Harry besides his retirement, though Draco felt Hermione had been itching to the entire time. He was grateful for her overwhelming restraint, as he arrived at the Manor feeling somehow more lonely than he had when he’d left it. 

Draco sent an order to Flourish and Blotts for some titles Hermione had mentioned, and he resumed his work selecting clients for sit-in portraits and customized oil paintings. 

He had Daphne Greengrass’ cousin once a week for a portrait, one of his earliest clients. She was a young and sweet girl, the perfect subject for painting as she was quiet and hardly moved. He then had a custom painting for Xenophilius Lovegood, of some creature he’d described in vivid detail and brought a blurry image of. Draco sketched it as best he could, thought it would be rejected, but both Luna and her father were enamored with it and published an entire issue on the Quibbler dedicated to his work. That had brought in more clients than he had expected, and a minuscule, irrational part of him hoped Harry would see it and think of him if only briefly. 

Narcissa was enthralled with his fame, though her peace in Paris was threatened at the prospect of Lucius’ release announced not soon after. Draco thought he would resent Hermione for it, who had asked him first before issuing the decree which stated he would be free to remain in exile due to ill health. Instead, he only thought of his mother. 

When the time came for Lucius’ release, Draco thought nothing of it. He had hardly thought of it. He received a letter from Narcissa, requesting his visit, but he kindly declined with the excuse that he was too busy helping Pansy prepare for her wedding  _ and _ carrying out his new duties. 

It seemed his life was in constant motion, a steady motion of work and long periods of reflection, reading, and learning. 

It was when he thought of Harry that he seemed to snap out of his peaceful motion, and fall into a drought of unease. Only the thought of him paused him. He would visit Hermione to see Rose, and think of him. Whenever he was at Hermione’s, he wondered if Harry had been there just then and simply disappeared when he heard of his arrival. 

It was ridiculous, this constant thinking of him. Even now he thought of him when he entered the study, associating his only pastime with Harry, who had sat there for hours. 

He was busy painting a garden view for Molly Weasley, when he thought that the grass looked like Harry’s eyes. The thought sickened him, but when he reached to mix the right colors for the Greengrass cousin, he thought it looked like the color of Harry’s hair. 

At times he wished to abandon painting only to abandon the memories associated with the act. Though what would he do with himself, if he could have neither. 

“Ridiculous,” Pansy said, when she saw his pitied state. “You think of him always, I know you do. You’re embarrassing every Slytherin known to man.”

Draco ignored her, as she watched him rearrange his study for the dozenth time. 

“Pitiful,” she spat, but helped him move the easels aside with her wand. “Truly. It seems you’re begging for an intervention.”

“Don’t you dare,” he spat in her direction. “You’ve done enough as it is.”

“Yes,” she sighed. “I hoped it would end better than it has.”

“Is that what you intended all along?” he turned to her sharply. “You were setting us up?”

She paused her incantation. “No. Not in my wildest dream did I think you and  _ Potter _ would fall in  _ love _ .”

“No such thing,” he said quickly, and turned from her.

Pansy dropped the subject, but she did what she did best and intervened. 

The morning Harry stepped through his floo had been a peaceful one for Draco. One of the most peaceful ones he’d had in months. He had tea in his study, and was looking over his business contracts when he heard a voice from his living room. He froze at its familiarity, and felt himself tremble as he cast his papers aside and stood from Lucius’ old desk.

“Harry,” he said, when the man emerged from the doorway. “Potter.”

Harry’s hand froze in the air, as he had been about to knock on the open door. The view of him sickened Draco. “Hi. Pansy said something about you needing a recommendation.”

Draco sank into his seat. “You can go now, don’t bother.”

“I came to help,” he said, carefully stepping towards him. “I can write you a recommendation.”

“There’s no need,” he said, and for a moment he thought Harry had cast  _ obliviate  _ by simply looking at him. “She lied, Potter. It’s what she does. She meddles and lies.”

His thick brows formed a knot. “Oh.”

Draco busied himself with his papers, expecting to hear Harry’s retreat. When his form remained unmoving, he glanced up. “You may leave.”

“Right,” Harry said, nearly solemnly. “You don’t need anything. You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Draco pressed. “Are  _ you  _ in need of help?”

“Don’t,” Harry said quietly. “Don’t speak to me that way.”

“In what way?” Draco asked, his stomach knotting at the thought of offending Potter. 

“Like nothing happened,” and when Harry looked at him, Draco knew instantly he had painted him wrong. All wrong. Because how did he ever think he’d gotten the right shade of green? When under the summer sun cast through the window, they were emerald and nearly electrifying. How had he thought it resembled green grass? It was darker, more complex than  _ grass _ .

And how had he ever thought that he could paint Harry into a still painting, and not one which moved? That had been the issue, he realized. That Harry could not be painted unless it was a moving and enchanted portrait, he deserved nothing less. Anything less, anything like how Draco had painted him was an inaccurate and offensive portrayal of him. 

“What happened?” his mouth moved as though filled with cotton.

“You know,” and now Harry’s lips formed a bitter smile. “Merlin, Draco. I waited for you to say something. After the trial, I said I needn’t space yet you never approached me.”

“You could have approached me, then,” Draco said, standing to turn and look out the window because looking at Harry any longer would render him incapable of logic. 

“I thought you wouldn’t like it, you would ignore me,” he said. “See, you dismiss me now.”

Draco felt a gentle hand at his shoulder, and he turned impulsively. He’d gotten the eyes all wrong, he was certain now in this proximity to the light. 

“We’re both fools,” he whispered. 

Harry smiled, and withdrew his hand. 

“The galleons,” Draco remembered, running his fingers through his hair. “I should return them.”

“What?” Harry frowned. “No. You must keep them.”

“The compensation afterwards was unnecessary."

“Keep it, Draco,” Harry said. 

“I have no need for it,” Draco insisted.

Harry looked over his shoulder at the crowded study. “I see that. Though you could use it to find yourself a bigger space. You’ve outgrown the study, Draco.”

Draco silently agreed, but said nothing. 

“Show me,” Potter said, in that commanding Potter voice.

So Draco showed him around the study, and the easels pressed to the walls with the many in-progress paintings. He showed him Lovegood’s and Molly’s. He showed him the new paints which arrived just the other day, and the stool he usually pulled out for his portrait sessions. All the while he was aware of Harry’s heavy presence by his side, the familiar scent of him, the sounds he made when he moved and when he agreed with something Draco said without really speaking. He listened as Harry pointed at how he had improved, and how he missed the smell of the paint, and how the stool looked comfortable with its cushioning charms. 

“I heard what you said,” Harry said abruptly. “The entire time, I heard you.”

Draco flushed, moving to turn away, but Harry held him. 

“It was nonsense.”

“Was it?'' Harry looked at him intently. “Was it true what you said to Shacklebolt and the rest of the court? Strictly business and nothing more?”

“Was it not?” Draco willed himself not to tremble. “Was it not nothing but an exchange of services?”

Harry went quiet for a moment, his eyes searching as if the answer was written all over Draco’s face. “Maybe it was. Maybe I wish it was more than that.”

Draco released a sharp breath, as if he’d been holding it for days, and his chest was in pain. “When did you realize? Did you lie to the court?”

Harry laughed. “Would it surprise you?”

“Yes,” Draco pressed. “Moral Potter. Wizarding savior. The One Who  _ Lived _ . Lying under  _ oath _ .”

“Shut up,” he grinned, and Draco’s legs wobbled.

“I said what I said to get you out and it worked,” he affirmed.

“Yes,” Harry took his hand, “because I could tell you meant it.”

“That I wanted you to come back? Because Hermione needed you and so did Ron-”

“And so did you,” Harry pressed. “Concede that so did you.”

Draco parted his lips. “I wanted you out so I could have the study-”

“Admit it,” Harry said, stepping closer to him until they stumbled to the window, so his back was pressed to the warm glass, the panes digging into his skin. “Draco.”

“Harry,” he breathed, and felt lightheaded. “You must leave.”

“I want you,” Harry said, and it jolted Draco, he felt every one of his limbs ache. “I want you. I know you want me, too.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Draco said quietly, looking into those brilliant green eyes in search of an answer. 

“Don’t say that,” Harry said, tightening his hold on Draco’s wrists. “Don’t say that, knowing I heard you every moment I was gone. That you stood there for hours, I know you did. Tell me.”

Draco reluctantly told him, though once he began it was difficult to stop describing how difficult it was to know Harry was gone in such an unexplainable way, and that in some way he was partly to blame. How he had seen his portrait everyday and felt dissatisfied with it, how now he was vexed that he had not charmed it to move. That Harry was the embodiment of movement.

Harry’s hands loosened around him, as he stared at Draco. “See. This is what I mean. Tell me that you want what I want.”

Draco told him. 

Over and over and until Harry pressed him to the window and kissed him as if at any moment either of them would be whisked away, trapped between canvas and paint. 


	23. Epilogue

The portrait was eventually auctioned from the Ministry and sold to a wealthy bidder. Harry remained immortal, unmoving, displayed in gallant red and gold. He was still, his green eyes blazing, the scar on his forehead unchanged.

Though in person, Draco grew to understand him better. He was grateful he no longer set eyes on the portrait. It was nothing like its true subject. 

Instead he painted what he liked to paint best: his memories. He basked in the fumes of oils and paints. He painted fields of daisies, quaint summer homes. He painted Hogwarts, the Manor’s library, and quidditch fields.

Sometimes Harry would touch his shoulder, and for a moment he would forget where he was as if  _ he  _ was the one trapped in a painted reality. 

Harry looked over Draco’s shoulder, and pointed where he liked with his long golden fingers. His immortal, unshakeable hands which Draco would then catch and press to his lips if he was feeling kind. 

Harry was untouchable sometimes. Unreal. He had abandoned the world and instead crawled into the Manor and  _ stayed  _ there. 

“Are you afraid?” Draco would ask, when it was dark and they were worn out from an argument. 

Harry curled away from his stained fingers. 

“You don’t forgive me.”

Harry took the hands and allowed them to cup his face. Stared directly into the eyes of King Midas, eternal immobility be damned. “Do I look afraid?”

Sometimes he would not step foot in the direction of the study, other times he would step in cautiously and spend his time observing Draco’s work. 

Pansy’s wedding took place the summer Harry returned and Draco spent it half observing her and the other half eyeing Harry. 

He sat behind canvas, painting the scene in stripes of white and rose gold. 

“This is all you do,” Narcissa said, standing beside him in a satin dress of smooth emerald green. 

“It’s my job,” he said.

“Your father,” she started, but he cared nothing for Lucius and she knew. 

“She’s right,” Harry said, after Pansy passed him a flute of champagne in her dazzling white dress. She pressed a red stained kiss to his cheek and smiled brilliantly at them both. “I hardly ever see you do anything else.”

“Are you complaining?” He asked quietly over the sound of music and polite laughter. Blaise was there, decked out in dark robes that fit him as though enchanted to. “Is this a formal complaint?”

“No,” Harry smiled and touched his chin, as if they were alone. “It keeps you busy.”

“Is that how you like me? Busy?” He asked, paintbrush poised mid-air.

Harry stood with him, sometimes chatting with whoever was curious to see what was on canvas. It relieved Draco, to have some of the attention drawn from him so he could finish the painting before the sun crawled its way up over the French hills. 

“She has a point,” he spoke, when Draco wiped his paintbrush to pick up a different shade for shadows. “About Lucius.”

Draco paused. “Must we do this now?”

“No,” Harry said. “You’re right, but is there any other time you would prefer?”

“This isn’t about Lucius,” Draco said, resuming his painting to avoid Harry’s eyes. “Besides, why do you care?”

“You’re right,” Harry said. “Perhaps this isn’t the right time.”

“Oh, but you’ve started it,” Draco looked up. “Go on, then.”

Harry frowned at him in that way he often did when he felt like reprimanding. “No, you’re right. That is your business. Only I thought your business was mine now, and my business was yours.”

Draco flushed and looked towards the canvas again, and then behind it to watch the way the hovering candles and swishing robes moved beautifully in the dark. “Your newfound skill at persuasion would have been a benefit during our time at Hogwarts.”

Therefore, begrudgingly, he went to see Lucius. He was old, and clearly decaying. Scientifically and medically decaying, he knew, or else he would not have been released from Azkaban so generously. Draco thought his ideas must be clearly painted on his face, that when Lucius stared at him it was because it was clear how much he wished his father had never received mercy. 

But Lucius stared at Draco because his son was there in the flesh, not in the form of twisting nightmares and wisps of dementia. He grasped his shoulder and nodded at him approvingly. They made small talk in Narcissa’s house in the south of France, not far from the Rosier’s. They spoke of the weather, of Narcissa, and of Harry Potter. 

Later, when he took the international portkey to home, he stood quietly by the study until Harry found him. He had his wand in his hand, and he tucked it away upon seeing him. “Should I ask?”

“Of course,” Draco said quietly. “My business is yours.”

Harry drew near him and kissed him. “Then? How was it?”

Draco felt emptier than he had before seeing his father. “I don’t know who he is anymore.”

He held him until Draco felt suffocated, and then he made him tea and brushed his hair with his fingers the way Draco liked. The Manor sighed, and aside from the wretched business with his father, all was well for the first time in a long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of it! Thanks for reading this far :)


End file.
